


How to Build a Meaningful Business Relationship

by septima_sum



Series: Chance Encounter [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostitute Stiles Stilinski, now including fanart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek came to a halt in front of the nondescript office building, checking his watch with a frown. He was ten minutes early. He could still turn around and forget the entire endeavor. </p><p><i>There's no shame in this</i>, he told himself, desperately trying to muster up courage.  <i>Plenty of people do this</i>.<br/> </p><p>_</p><p>Or: Derek never meant to be one of those sleazy alphas who went to a heat agency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the second part in a series, but it's not necessary to have read 'Chance Encounter' first.

  
  


Derek came to a halt in front of the nondescript office building, checking his watch with a frown. He was ten minutes early. He could still turn around and forget the entire endeavor. 

_There's no shame in this_ , he told himself, desperately trying to muster up courage. _Plenty of people do this_. 

Yeah, but plenty of people also sniffed glue or died their pubic hair in neon colors. Not that Derek would know the last part – or the first part, really! – but he talked to Erica, and Erica had an ear on the ground, or so she claimed. She knew these things. 

Speaking of the devil: Erica had done the most to push Derek down his current path, but did he really want to become a walking, talking cliché, the embodiment of a conceited Manhattan alpha? He was already ticking way too many boxes on that one. 

Single? _Check._

Perpetual fear of commitment? _Check._

Wealthier than any decent person had any right to be? _Check._

Working a high-stress, high-risk job of a vaguely unethical nature? _Check._

Treating omegas like pretty playthings that could be bought and discarded on a whim?

_Check._

Maybe. Or maybe not.

 _It's not that serious,_ the voice of his inner Erica piped up. _Stop being so uptight, goddammit! We talked about this!_

Derek took one step. Then another. Before he knew it, he'd passed the revolving doors and was crossing the foyer. He didn't know what propelled him forward – some measure of curiosity, probably, the never once satisfied urge to know if all that hype about heat sex was true, about omegas. And then there was the idea of Erica looking at him in _that way_. Trying to hide her disappointment and once again failing. He was always so easily manipulated by guilt, such a pushover. No spine to speak of.

The elevator was packed with humans and werewolves. Derek pressed the button for the fifteenth floor, which housed a PR agency and an accountancy firm, and tried to calm his fraying nerves. He was wearing one of his finest three-piece suits, but in spite of that armor still felt transparent. As if everybody knew why he was here and was silently judging him for it, labeling him one of _those_ alphas, the sleazy ones, the ones that never married or had relationships but used heat agencies all year long and then had the nerves to call themselves _players_ , the ones with god complexes a mile wide. He wasn't one of those. He was _decent_. He recycled trash and he always RSVP'ed, and occasionally he even helped older people cross the street. Derek tried to keep that in mind. 

Once in the fifteenth floor, he took the stairs and walked to the next the lower level, where the heat agency was located. From the outside, nothing about it seemed extraordinary. A camera was was mounted above the entrance, one of those black little dome things, and Derek looked up at it, at the tiny red light steadily blinking within its depth. Derek was startled when the sliding doors opened and revealed a spacious room that looked unobtrusively elegant. He stepped inside. There was something pristine and calming about about the white, gold, and dark gray colors, the tasteful art on the walls, and the flower-filled vases which filled the air with a creamy, fresh scent that made Derek forget, if only for a moment, that he was still in the middle of Manhattan.

The receptionist greeted him with a bright smile. “Welcome to _Cupido's Dream_ , sir.”

  
  
  


*

 

Derek was a workaholic, there were no two ways about it.

After studying finance, he'd been employed at the hedge fund his uncle Peter had co-founded. It was an alpha-dominated high pressure job, but Derek welcomed its challenges. He wasn't one for twiddling his thumbs anyway, and since he was plagued by insomnia and rarely slept more than a few hours a night, he appreciated the high demands of his job, the way it monopolized his time and consumed it. He began his work days at six in the morning and didn't leave the office before six in the evening. Even his Saturdays weren't entirely off-limits. The little free time he had he spent with his packmates, mostly because they strong-armed him into social commitments. With the way Boyd, Erica, and Isaac ganged up on Derek, no one would ever guess that he actually occupied a higher rank in Talia's pack. 

This Saturday, Erica was over in Derek's apartment, fresh with wild stories out of her exciting life. Derek felt exhausted just by listening to her. He nestled himself into his grandfather armchair and tried to concentrate on _The Economist._

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” Erica interrupted him, her eyes blazing.

“Yep,” Derek sighed. “You had a threesome last night, which I _really_ didn't need to know anything about, by the way. You danced your heels off. You drank more bane-laced booze than any human or wolf should be capable, at least not without causing permanent liver damage. You French-kissed a minor celebrity. In short, a typical Friday night.”

“Damn right.” Erica grinned, as usually pleased with her escapades. She suffered from the _small town syndrome_ , in Derek's opinion – arriving in the city, she had decided to outdo even the most worldly and apathetic of New Yorkers and transform herself into a living legend. She bit her lips (which were painted a dark cherry red to complement her vamp image, naturally) and pouted at him. “Derek, you should really join us tonight. When was the last time you were clubbing?”

“I don't know. About two years ago?”

Erica staggered back in an exaggerated display of shock. “Are you _kidding_ me? How can anyone go without dancing for that long? You're old, Derek, but you're not _that_ old.” 

“I'm reasonably middle-aged,” Derek replied.

“You're thirty-two, not fifty-two . And yet you're wearing an old man sweater while you're reading the statistics section of the Economist like you haven't binged on bone-dry data all week. It won't be long before you complain about all those fun-loving youths like a judgmental geriatric. I see a walking cane in your future.”

“Get off my lawn.”

“Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen. You should get your head back in the game.”

“Not interested.”

_“Derek!”_

“What part of _'I'm happy with my life'_ is so incomprehensible to you?”

“But that's the thing, you're clearly not happy.” Erica looked uncharacteristically serious all of the sudden. “You're not even _pretending_ to be happy. You're just... admitting defeat. Come on, it's been ages since Kate.”

Derek's heart stuttered for a shocked moment. His eyes glowed golden. 

At least Erica had the courtesy of looking chastened. Even so, remorse was a rare look on her and the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “You're only proving my point,” she muttered, more quietly now. “You're still punishing yourself.”

“I'm not interested in a new relationship,” Derek replied, over-enunciating each syllable.

“I didn't say you had to be, gramps. Kids these days do something they call _one night stands_. The concept is seedy, but I'll admit it has its own special allure.” She grinned at him. “Get your rocks off. With your looks, it should be easy as pie. Just hook up! Or hell, just go out and find some scrabble friends! Join a golf club. Go bird watching. Just do _something_.”

_“Not. Interested.”_

Erica groaned and wrang her hands, starting to pace. Her six inch stiletto heels hammered a _tock-tock-tock_ rhythm on the hardwood floor. “Really! What am I supposed to do with you.”

“Nothing. I'm a reclusive, homey alpha and I like it that way.”

Erica stilled. Her eyes brightened as if she'd been struck by an epiphany. “You know what the solution is? Sleep with an omega! Preferably one in heat.”

_“What?”_

“Oh look, there's still some life left in him! Desperately holding onto the hollowed-out husk of his ruined youth-”

“Erica! I'm not sleeping with an omega. Especially not one in heat. How do you even _get_ these ideas?”

“But you want to.”

“Who _says_ that?”

“It's pretty obvious.” She grinned wolfishly at him, exposing her canines, satisfied that she'd finally found a weak spot she could exploit. “I'm a werewolf too, Derek. You can't hide the truth from me. But so what? It's no reason to feel embarrassed or ashamed. For an alpha like yourself, banging an omega is a perfectly healthy and natural urge-”

_“Erica!”_

“What? By the way you're reacting, I'm not sure you ever had that talk.” 

“No, Erica, I'm not going clubbing with you. I'm not gonna hook up with some random omega. No one night stands. No heat sex. No anything!”

Erica tsk-ed. "I could introduce you to some supremely lovely omegas.”

"I know you've been flirting with the concept, but pimping is illegal in this country.“

Erica looked excited all of the sudden. "That's it! Oh my god, Derek, you're a genius!“

Derek's frown deepened by several degrees. _"Erica... ?“_

"You know what you should do? Make an appointment at a heat agency!“

Derek's jaw fell open. He was speechless for a full moment. "You did _not_ just say that.”

Erica looked positively giddy with glee. "You can bet your furry ass I did! Derek! Think about it – it's perfect. That way you can skip the whole getting to know each other part and can go straight to banging each other silly. A minimum of social interactions! And you earn enough to go to one of those pretentious Upper East Side agencies with their, and I quote, 'prime stock of omegas', or whatever the hell they like to call it. I've heard those prim and proper omegas are dirty as hell between the sheets! All that repression works wonders for their kinkiness. It's going to be fantastic!”

" _Erica_. I'm not going to pick an omega as if I'm selecting a prime cut at the butcher!”

Erica sobered up at his tone. "Heat agencies are perfectly legal and respectable.“

"Which says nothing about their morality. And even legally, it's a tightrope walk more than anything. Also, I'm _not_ that pathetic. I don't need to buy sex.“

Erica sighed and lowered herself onto the arm of Derek's plushy grandfather chair. "You're not pathetic, Derek. But you have some misconceptions about heat agencies. Sorry for being so glib earlier. Heat sharing is a form of prostitution, sure, I won't argue on that point, but it's not exactly like regular sex work. It's based on the enthusiastic participation of both parties.“

“I'm sure lots of sex workers are voluntarily doing what they do,” Derek conceded. “That doesn't mean they're _enthusiastic_ about it. It's work for them, not leisure.” He shook his head. “We're wolves, Erica. Faking does nothing for me.“

“Aw Derek, you little sugar muffin, and that's where you're wrong! It's really not like regular prostitution.“ Erica smiled at him reassuringly, poking her index finger into his chest. "I meant the enthusiastic part. Omegas in heat are horny like hell, right? That's common knowledge. I'm sure some omegas sell their heat and hate it, but if you're using one of the upscale agencies, it's all about compatibility and mutual desire, _the completion of the circle_ , that sort of stuff. In fact, they're doing the utmost to represent the omegas' interests as well, not only those of the alphas.” 

“What makes you of all people suddenly an expert?“

A dreamy smile appeared on Erica's lips. "Oh, a friend of mine and Boyd's used to sell his heats.“ 

Derek did a minor double take at that; when Erica said _friend_ , the addendum _with benefits_ usually went unsaid. It was uncommon for bonded werewolves to be that free with their affections, but then again Derek came from a traditional family-based pack and that had shaped his point of view. He always associated being mates with fierce, uncompromising monogamy. Erica and Boyd had a different system in place and yet it worked well for them – and that was all that mattered. He could often feel the faint ghost echoes of their happiness reverberating through the pack bond; it was a solid, comforting source of warmth that he enjoyed even though it wasn't directed at him. 

“It's still prostitution,” Derek said and frowned in displeasure. “If it's such a mutually beneficial arrangement, and all spiritual and whatnot, why should _I_ be the one who's paying?”

“I think that's simply the law of supply and demand. You know, all that yada yada heat-sex-is-sacred-and-holy crap. Horny alphas are a dime a dozen, but omegas who're inclined to share their heat with a virtual stranger? Not so much. But come on, you're not a neanderthal. You won't judge them for it, will you? We all have our needs, and I bet you'd make someone real happy. You're wet dream material.” Erica winked at him. “That's no overstatement. Trust me, I would know.“ 

“God, _Erica_ ,” Derek muttered. “Boyd's my best friend. You're my _packmate_. You're basically like a sister to me!”

"Why has god given this body and face to the biggest prude on the planet?“ Erica sighed theatrically. "Such a tragic waste.“ 

"I'm not a prude,“ Derek objected. 

"You were just born in the wrong era. I think the 18th century would have labeled you a very forthright young man.“

“Oh shut up, you harlot,” Derek grumbled, but with the way he leaned into her side, seeking contact, there was no sting in his words. “I don't like the idea of paying for sex.”

“I know you're skeptic, but how about you give it a try, just for once? I have connections, I can probably get you an appointment at one of those super fancy heat agencies where they look down on everyone who can't afford golden napkin holders.”

“That doesn't sound appealing at all.”

“I know what I'm doing, _trust me_. Talk to them. See for yourself whether you're interested.”

Derek was silent for a few moments, which Erica apparently interpreted as his impending defeat and surrender. "Indulge yourself a little! Save some poor, needy omega who will probably swoon right into your arms and beg to be bred and knotted!”

“This is not going to end well,” Derek said darkly and with conviction. 

Erica rolled her eyes, patting his arm. “It totally will.”

  
  


*

 

After that, Erica didn’t stay long. Her career as a photographer and artist had begun to gain traction after the New York Times article, and these days she was always on the go, always invited to this party or that vernissage. She was a social butterfly, but there was something somber beneath her lively, vivacious demeanor. Truth to be told, Derek found her paintings and pictures striking but very disturbing. He wasn't the only one who thought so. One art critic, Alessio Vincitori, had written: _her works are like flaming arrows pointed straight at the heart – precise and effective, they tore me open before I knew it. I cried over her pictures._ Most people were surprised when they first met Erica and she wasn't the taciturn recluse they'd expected her to be.

Anyway, Erica had accomplished what she had come to do: rattle Derek’s composure and give him something to mull over.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Derek suspected that his knowledge of all heat-related things was severely limited. He had dated mostly betas (of both genders) and female alphas, with the exception of two omegas at college, but those dates had never really went anywhere. There had been no chemistry.

Okay, admittedly his little brother Philip was an omega, but it was not like they ever sat down and talked about his heats. (And Derek wanted to keep it that way _forever_ , please and thank you. In fact, he preferred to block out the fact that Philip was an omega whenever he possibly could). 

On the downside, that left Derek woefully short of people he could turn to.

Well. At least there was always the internet. After a moment of consideration, he angled for his cell phone and opened a private tab. The first site he went to was Wikipedia.

_...in human omegas, the estrus phase of the estrous cycle is characterized by a heightened desire for sexual activity, with intercourse resulting in an increased likelihood of conception. The estrus phase is regulated by gonadotropic hormones such as progesterone, estrogene and pheroterone, and most often occurs four times a year, although a substantial level of variation has been noted (see also: span and variability). Due to the elevated body temperature and experiences of hot flashes, which last from 30 seconds to ten minutes and may be associated with shivering, sweating and reddening of skin (see also: symptoms), the estrus phase is commonly referred to as 'heat'. Since the level of released pheromones drastically increases,a similar phase of hormone disregulation might be triggered in alphas (which is commonly referred to as 'rut')..._

Derek skimmed over the first parts of the article, feeling foolish and all of twelve years old for even considering that Wikipedia had the answers he sought. The proffered information was mostly of a biological and technical nature; it was the sort of the stuff he had learned at school, all those years back, and for all of its necessity it seemed abstract and removed from everyday life.

Undecided, Derek toyed with the phone. Maybe it was time to get slightly more creative. He opened another private tab and entered 'omega', 'sex', ‘crazy’ and 'heat sharing' into the search bar.

The first site that Google spit out was the subreddit for... omega fetishists. _Fever fetishists_. Derek idly browsed through the list of threads. It looked bad. Some alphas and betas treated omegas as little more than conquests or trophies, and there was a subset of fetishists that were particularly fixated on lycanthropic omegas ( _were bitches_ , as they lovingly called them), or omegas of a particular race. There was every bit of mean-spiritedness, sexual frustration and anger that one could imagine, and a good deal more on top of that.

Despite his better knowledge, Derek clicked on the thread that was titled, _'HEAT SEX – weighing the pros and cons!'_

 _There's nothing better than fucking an omega in heat_ , throwaway199 wrote. _No matter how independent they think they are or how modern or whatever the second they're in heat they jump on your dick like it's a life saver. I love how the slutty little bitches are GAGGING for it. Theyre animals._

Its_so_serious wrote: _I hate dealing with their moodiness. They want this, they want that. It's too cold or too hot or they want salt and vinegar chips and strawberries or some shit. They're ruled by their hormones. Its no wonder we evolved to be on top._

Coffeeholic: _Okay, confession time. I'm addicted to omega slick. That stuff smells like heaven._

Zzzimba: _Fucking into a heat slick pussy is the best thing ever. There is NOTHING that compares!_

Chuckee81: _Heat bitches r stupid. Brain damaged u know? But im not gonna lie. I like that about them._

Derek backspaced as quickly as he could, feeling vaguely nauseous. Theoretically he knew that some alphas held these opinions, and he had come across enough knotheads not to be entirely surprised by the more extreme ends of the spectrum, but... fuck. He really hoped those degenerates weren't representative of a larger part of the population. He gritted his teeth at the thought of Phillip dealing with any of them on a regular basis.

Humanity _had_ to be better than that. He refused to think otherwise.

Derek searched around for a while before he settled into another thread, this time in the love subreddit. Most of the comments seemed to from be alphas and betas who had omega partners.

Hotmama_alert: _When my wife is in heat, it's intense. I love that. It's like when we first were in love, you know? Decades have passed, but suddenly it's this rush, this urgency... nothing in the world matters anymore. I want to do everything for her, give her everything. I want to make her come thirty times over_.

Bluepenguin 7: _I so know that feeling! I'm totally in a daze when he's in heat. Tunnel vision. Everything is about that one thing._

totestrash: _LOL. Tunnel vision!_

Hotmama_alert: _Could you be more immature?_

totestrash: _I'll try to find out! :-D_

Slingshot69: _I once got dehydrated because I didn't care about drinking enough. My omega bf had to call the ambulance. It was suuuper embarrassing!_

Spectrum2345: _It happens to the best of us!_

Totestrash: _Nah. It really doesn't._

Bluepenguin 7: _Shut up honey._

sail_the_sea: _I was going to town on my gf and she grabbed my head so brutally she ripped out a strand of my hair. I still kept going and it was fantastic. Like, don't believe that nonsense about omegas being wilting little flowers, they're BRUTAL!_

HiDeMarche: _I'm a slave to my partners when they're in heat. I will literally do ANYTHING for them!_

Totestrash: _Partners?_

HiDeMarche: _Not at all of us lead square little lives_.

Well. These commenters whistled an entirely different tune. Judging from both threads, however, most people seemed to love heats – even if they didn't necessarily love the omega who went through it. Heat-sharing seemed like a sordid, dirty affair, but of course, Derek reckoned, that was very the nature of it.

  
  


*

 

Derek met Boyd at _Survival of the Fittest_ later that day, one of those outdoorsy, spacious gyms that were built with the needs of werewolves in mind. It was a standing date between them. Boyd was getting his master's degree in psychology and needed a place to burn energy when he wasn't pouring over papers, and Derek needed some outlet as well. Being in the city, where humanity was so overbearing, so thick and concentrated, where he was so far away from the comfort of a familiar territory, made him feel on edge more often than not. 

Most humans thought that werewolves were naturally trim and fit, but that was far from true. They just had different metabolisms. The average werewolf consumed thrice the amount of calories a human consumed within a day, so of course it must seem like magic to them when werewolves weren't bursting at the seams. 

It took half an hour of grunting, sweating, and lifting weights the magnitude of small van before Derek mustered up enough courage to finally ask Boyd _the question_. “So. Have ever... slept with an omega?” A pause. _“In heat.”_

Boyd had the audacity to laugh. “Yeah.”

“Really? In heat?” Derek looked at Boyd incredulously, unable to smother the shock he felt.

Boyd didn't even blink at him, but he did look moderately smug. “Sure.”

Scratch that, he _radiated_ smugness out of every single damn pore. 

Derek took a few moments to mull that statement over, heavily breathing through the mechanical glide of his muscles, the burn and strain of each lift. “Okay. What's it like?”

A blissful grin spread over Boyd's features. “Honestly? Amazing. Mind-blowing. The sex was out of this world.” 

“All the cliches, huh?”

“Not all of them, but it's true that it's different. Primal. Can be good, can be bad from what I've heard – that depends on your state of mind – but to me, yeah... I liked it. A lot.“

Derek grunted at a particular strenuous lift.

“I know what Erica told you to do,” Boyd said with an amused little wink.

Derek grimaced. “You have one hell of a pushy mate.“

“Pushy doesn't even _begin_ to cover it. Not by a long shot. But she's right more often then she's not, which is pretty unfortunate for all of us. She can gloat with the best of them.”

“And what's your opinion on the whole issue?” Derek asked.

Boyd shrugged. “It can't hurt to try, can it?”

  
  


*

 

When Derek was led into the office of Lydia Martin, a stunningly beautiful beta redhead who pursed her lips at his sight and stared straight at him as if she could gaze into the deepest pits of his soul, Derek was suddenly and profoundly certain his packmates _didn't know shit._

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to the wonderful [docbeeski ](http://docbeeski.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this chapter! :-)

  
  
Ms. Martin was not what Derek had expected. She was younger than the person he had pictured in his mind, and on top of that she was one of those betas who had the naturally commanding aura of an alpha. The way she carried herself, she was someone who exuded confidence, who expected every order to be followed to the letter. She wore a well cut business dress, all sharp angles and lines, which was slightly at odds with the mane of red locks that spilled over her shoulders in an unstoppable cascade. Her lips were painted a bright signal red.

“ _Cupido's Dream_ has a long, rich history of facilitating heat arrangements between alphas and omegas,“ Ms. Martin said. “We pride ourselves on ensuring that our heat partners are as compatible as possible. We're a highly selective agency and, before we can accept you as a client, we'll need to make sure you're a good fit. I hope you'll understand that some portions of this interview will touch on sensitive parts of your biography. It's not my wish to make you uncomfortable, but for the sake of the protocol, it's necessary to delve into a few private subjects. I expect honest disclosure from you.“

Derek nodded his assent. “That's fine with me.“

“For a start, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?”

Derek recounted all the usual corner points of his life, which could be burnished into something quite decent if he gave it a try. After graduating as salutatorian in high school, Derek had won a basketball scholarship at a top university (although not an Ivy League). Despite the grueling training schedule, he'd finished his studies right on time and with an excellent result, and had been employed at _Quaestus Capital Management_ subsequently. He didn't hide the fact that his mother was Talia Hale. While the pack was renowned in werewolf cycles and even politically interested humans knew who his mother was, many people actively disliked and implicitly discriminated against werewolves. Yet Derek saw no point in hiding what he wasn't ashamed of. If his kind wasn't welcome at _Cupido's Dream_ , he'd rather know sooner than later.

Ms. Martin seemed entirely unfazed by the admission. She nodded at all the appropriate turns and let him know when she was satisfied with the depth of his biographical sketch. “Thank you, Mr. Hale. Now – may I ask if you've ever used the service of a heat agency before?”

“I haven't.”

“I see. Have you ever been an omega's heat partner?“

“No,“ Derek answered truthfully. It was a minorly embarrassing admission, if only for alphas, but he bet it wasn't the worst to come.

“Heat sex is often described as especially intense, as I'm sure you're aware. There are lots of myths surrounding it, and equally many mis-portrayals. One such assumption is that omegas become incapable of rational thought during heat – that they are completely consumed by the mating drive. Deluded by lust, if you will. This assumption is closely connected to the idea that omegas in heat cannot be raped.”

Ms. Martin looked at him for a long, probing moment.

“I'm aware that's not true,“ Derek hurried to say and fought the urge to duck his head in embarrassment. He felt guilty in a vague, inexplicable manner.

“Please excuse me being this blunt, but I need to make sure we're on the same page. It's disconcerting how widespread that assumption still is. If you're going to enter into an arrangement of heat-sharing, you should be aware that your partner can step back from the agreement at any moment, even if the heat has already begun and you've already had intercourse. The same applies to you, of course.”

Derek nodded. “I wouldn't want to have it any other way.”

“That's good to hear.“ Ms. Martin graced him with a genuine smile, which lit up her face and made her gorgeous features even more striking. But she quickly sobered up again. “There is still _very vocal_ support for the idea that heats should only be shared in long-term relationships, ideally not before marriage. Some believe sex during heat to be a union of bodies, minds, and spirits alike.” Ms. Martin's lips pursed for the briefest moment.

Derek tried to remember if there had been any recent news about protests outside of heat agencies in New York, but nothing came to mind. He knew it was a regular occurrence in other states.

“Here at _Cupido's Dream_ , we're obviously not proponents of this opinion. We believe in the omega's right to have the same kind of unrestricted, fulfilling sex life that alphas and betas enjoy.”

Unbidden, memories of Philip rose to the forefront of Derek's mind. His little brother had forced many a conversation about _purity as a social construct_ on the family at dinner time, to the veritable discomfort of everyone. They were a liberal family, even for Californian standards, but certain topics still didn't go well with mashed potatoes and pot roast. Derek's mind skidded away from the thought as soon as it had been formed. This was not the time nor place to think of little brothers.

If this went through – and if _Philip_ ever got wind of it -

Derek didn't know what was worse: that Philip would judge him for it, or that he would see no problems with it at all.

“While heats might not be inherently spiritual in nature, they are still intense time periods in which partners usually get very close. Physically, for obvious reasons, but also mentally, since there's little need for inhibition in the rush of oxytocin and endorphins. Frankly speaking, it can be exhausting to share someone's heat, and I don't mean that in the most obvious sense.” Ms. Martin smiled at him, raising one eyebrow into a delicate arch. “The bottom line is: it's a vulnerable time period for everyone involved, so I _must_ advise you to think about heat-sharing carefully. You need to be sure it's something you're comfortable with.”

Derek nodded yet again obediently.

“Secondly, and I apologize once more for being this blunt, you need to be aware you're not buying an hour with a prostitute at this agency. This isn't a brothel. Sharing someone's heat means forming a connection, however fleeting. It's between equal partners.” Ms. Martin looked at Derek, and for a split second he felt like an insect that was being pinned to a needle; he was utterly transfixed by the sharpness of her gaze. “You need to be able to do everything in your capacity to help the omega through heat, which means you need to be fully attuned to their wishes. There needs to be trust, selflessness, and above all – because you get nowhere without it – honesty. It can be a humbling experience. You open yourself up, and as a result you might feel strong sensations of jealousy and possessiveness after the heat ended. It can be difficult to adjust to this intense level of intimacy, both when it starts and when it ends.”

“Okay,“ Derek said and nodded dumbly. He was beginning to feel out of his depths. He'd never really thought heat-sharing would be that _serious_ of a business. His colleagues sometimes joked about it, and there were plenty of allusions to the practice in pop culture, but nowhere had Derek ever gotten the impression he got now, which was that he was about to embark on a grave and dangerous mission with an unknown (and potentially fatal) outcome. He wondered if the ‘shovel talk’ was a specialty of this agency, which was on the highest end of the price spectrum, or if it was something every heat agency practiced diligently.

Ms. Martin seemed to sense that he was on the brink of feeling overwhelmed. She gave him a small, conspirative smile. “Heavy stuff, _sorry_. I apologize again for the necessity to include these subjects. Now, to the lighter parts of this conversation – how do you feel about omegas having abortions?”

Derek choked on _saliva_.

It wasn't his finest moment.

Ms. Martin's lips twitched briefly. “The omegas signed at this agency take birth control, of course, but every contraceptive can fail. So if the worst comes to the worst, the omega you share a heat with might get pregnant.”

“Um.” Derek was rattled by the turn of the conversation, yet – given the current political climate – it was an understandable detour. “I'm fine with omegas having abortions.”

Ms. Martin nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Very well. Now, this is your first appointment with us, Mr. Hale. May I ask what prompted you to get in contact with us?”

Derek shifted his weight on the chair. It probably wasn't a viable option to answer _'Erica Reyes',_ was it? “Honestly... I'm not exactly sure. It's been awhile since my last relationship, and my friends suggested that I do something different. Interrupt my routine.”

“Do you see this as an experiment?”

Derek faltered once more, unsure if he should answer the question honestly. In the end he decided to do so, since Ms. Martin seemed like the type to cut through the bullshit anyway. “I wouldn't use the term _experiment_ , but it's certainly something that brings me out of my comfort zone. I haven't been with someone in a while, and a part of me wonders what I'm missing out on, but I'm also certain I don't want anything too serious right now, anything with strings attached.”

“Do you feel apprehensive about using the services of a heat agency?”

Derek inclined his head slowly. “Yes,” he said after a pause.

“Why?”

“It makes me think of this cliche of... of _sleazy_ alphas, and I don't want to be like that. Take advantage of someone. I'm worried what paying for this kind of experience says about me.”

And yeah, Derek was worried about that. Was using a heat agency ever anything more than a rich alpha's fantasy fulfillment? Derek earned a lot of money, and while he had few impulses to spend it, he saw his colleagues – or even more strikingly, the investors – use their wealth in the most ridiculous fashions. Derek had never seen himself as part of that world, but maybe he wasn't so different after all. He was seeking a thrilling adventure, wasn't he? A once-in-a-lifetime, must-do kind of experience, something to cross off his bucket list. Except that he wasn't about to wrestle a narwhal or whatever else tickled rich people's fancy these days, he was at a _heat agency_ and considered _paying_ to share an omega's heat. Paying for the privilege of engaging in a hormone-fuelled fuck marathon with a stranger, to put it bluntly.

It sounded arguably worse than the narwhal thing.

And yet most people wouldn't condemn him for it. Heat-sharing might be the object of dirty jokes and even dirtier speculation (rumors seemed to follow every famous omega), but in some circles a modicum of self-indulgence was almost expected. While the practice was nearly unheard of in rural California, the upper stratosphere of New York's society held different views. The widow of a deceased tycoon had recently published a biography and spilled a cornucopia of dirty little secrets, among them the admission that her husband had made use of a heat agency several times a year, and she had known about it – and, like so many others, tacitly condoned it.

Derek was still highly skeptical about whether he wanted to be a part of that world in any form. He couldn't deny that he was _curious_ , but he needed to be _comfortable_ first and foremost. At least Ms. Martin's brisk demeanor helped to alleviate some of his worst fears about cowering, abused omegas and the alphas who pimped them out. Erica had said that the agencies represented the omegas' interests as well, not only those of the alphas'. Derek had found no counter-evidence so far.

As she'd threatened in the beginning, Ms. Martin began to ask a series of uncomfortably private questions, which included asking if he'd ever had a relationship with an omega, if he had omega friends, and what his preferences in regard to the primary and secondary genders were. To Derek's confusion, some of her other questions were entirely unrelated to the topic. He chose to answer all of them truthfully, even if he elaborated more on some than on others. By the end, when they had talked for nearly two hours, he felt as if he'd run a marathon or applied for the next NASA moonwalk mission.

“Well, Mr. Hale, I thank you for your time and patience. I know this must have been a trying conversation at points.” The expression in Ms. Martin's eyes softened considerably. “Assuming that all of your documents are in order and you choose to sign a contract with us, I think I have a promising candidate for you.”  
  
  


*

 

Erica called him the minute he left the building, because of course she did. Her sense of premonition was nothing short of disconcerting at this point.

 _“Derek!”_ Erica's overly enthusiastic voice shrilled into his ear. “How was it? We're dying to know!”

“Intense,” Derek grunted. “I've had friendlier colonoscopies.”

“Yeah, it's like fisting without stretching, right? That's Lydia for you!”

“ _How_ do you know her again?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“We're yoga buddies,” Erica said.

“Ah.”  
  
  


*

 

Somewhat predictably, it went like this:

Derek sent in the staggering amount of documents that _Cupido's Dream_ required, which included a drug test and an STD test from a lab associated with the heat agency, a certificate of his financial solvency, and the proof of a clean criminal record, and then he busied himself with work and told himself he couldn't care less whether he was accepted as a client or not.

It wasn't long before he found a heavy, official-looking letter in his mailbox. _Cupido's Dream_ welcomed him as a client and sent him the contract everyone had to sign upon registration.

Derek was – _okay_ , he was glad, he could admit it. But he knew that was cheap psychological trick, _cause and effect_ , because he had already invested all of this time and effort.

Actually opening the contract put a damper on his mood. There were a _lot_ of clauses to read. He signed a confidentiality agreement. He signed that he would not oppose an abortion in the case of an accidental pregnancy. He signed that he would not be liable for alimony, either, should the omega in question not choose an abortion.

So far, the whole heat-sharing business was decidedly unfun.

And then Derek got to the price section and discovered how unfun it _really_ was. There were several models of payment and all of them basically asked for his left and right arm as well as his firstborn alpha kid. It was ridiculous. Derek opted for the limited trial registration (which would go easy on his wallet and his nerves).

Once the payment model had been decided and finalized, it was another period of waiting until Derek got a call that _Cupido's Dream_ had a candidate they wanted him to meet.

It was one thing to fill out forms and hand in documents – that was all very dry and theoretical, only legalese and headaches – but it was a completely different thing to actually meet his potential _heat partner._

In person.

In public.

To see whether they were _compatible._

And that was why Derek was currently sitting in an outdoor café and waited for a stranger to approach him. Time to face the music. Time to see if he'd made an idiotic mistake. At least the agency had chosen a quaint little café with a famed selection of Italian pastries. Derek's table was situated conveniently close to a fountain; the noise of the moving water would make it difficult to overhear any conversation, even if a curious werewolf tried to listen in.

Derek heard the omega before he saw him – the steady but slightly elevated heartbeat that came closer and closer.

When a shadow fell on the table, Derek turned around. His first thought was a stunned _hello._

The omega was tall and slender, with a fit physique. His pale skin was liberally dotted with moles and his eyes were doe-like, a deep whiskey brown. And that _neck_. Jesus. That neck was a werewolf's _dream_. The omega smiled as Derek stood up, and Derek got a whiff of his scent – something like wood smoke and pine and honey, innately disarming and inherently attractive. “I'm Stiles,” the guy introduced himself and gave Derek his hand to shake. Despite the strangeness of the name, there was no telltale sign of a lie, no stuttering or skipping heartbeat. The omega didn't offer his last name, but that was probably to be expected.

“Derek Hale,” Derek said. He was unsure whether to pull out Stiles' chair – would that gesture be too informal, too patronizing? He decided against it.

There was a pause once Stiles had settled into his seat, and although it could only have been seconds, it stretched into what felt like eternity. “The pastries here are excellent,” Derek began to ramble. “Only Italian recipes. Apparently this café is renowned for it.”

“I know, I love this place,” Stiles said. “I go here whenever I need a sugar fix.”

It was straight up strange to sit across an omega that sold his heats. Derek reminded himself not to stare, not to be too wide-eyed, too rural. Everyone knew that heat-sharing was a thing that existed, but then again it happened in secret and was cloaked in silence. Nobody actually _knew_ someone who sold their heats. Except Derek now did, didn't he? The most puzzling thing was how _normal_ Stiles seemed, which begged the question what Derek had been expecting in the first place. He suddenly had lots of question that he had no intention of actually asking. How long had Stiles been doing this? Did he like it? Was he in financial troubles – were there _really_ no other ways to make money?

Derek's train of thought was stopped in its tracks when a waitress came over to take their orders. Stiles knew right away what he wanted and Derek had had enough time to study the menu and make up his mind.

When the waitress was gone, Stiles looked at Derek with sly consideration. “So, _Mr. Hale_ , what do you do for a living? No, wait – don't tell me. Let me guess.”

“Alright.” Derek's eyebrows climbed a notch. 

“Give me your hands.”

“What?” Derek asked. But Stiles didn't mean that as a joke; he was completely serious. “Okay...fine,” Derek said after a pause, with no small amount of bewilderment.

Stiles grabbed Derek's hands and held them up like they were in a nail salon; his forehead wrinkled as the studied them with a single-minded focus. “Smooth like a baby's bottom. Not even a hint of calluses. Rules out a career in construction work and sculpturing.”

“I'm a werewolf,” Derek said. “We don't usually get calluses.”

Stiles looked neither surprised nor deterred, which Derek found comforting. He didn't want to feel grateful for being accepted as he was, for the absolute minimum of decency. The moments were he disclosed he was a werewolf were always tense and awkward, and it was irritating to encounter them again and again. Humans inevitably assumed that being human was the default state of being.

“Hey, don't worry, it's totally fine,” Stiles assured him. “Are you an alpha both by orientation and rank, if I might ask?”

“Just by orientation. My mother's the Alpha of our pack.”

“Cool. Although that makes my guesses more difficult, since your smooth baby bottom hands don't tell me anything.” Stiles flashed him a winning smile. “But don't worry, my skills of deduction are nearly unlimited.”

“ _Big words_ , Sherlock. I hope you can back that up.”

“Challenge accepted. We-ell. You look like a guy who's used to wearing formal suits. You're not even fidgeting a little bit, and that's an expensive suit. The fabric, the way it fits... It might even be custom-tailored. You're working a white collar job, that much is obvious. How many lawyer jokes do you know?”

“Well. I don't – not a single one?”

Stiles gave him a skeptical look. “Everyone knows at least one.”

“I don't.” Derek scratched his chin, but there was really nothing that came to his mind. There were a couple of in-house lawyers working at the fund, but he rarely came in contact with them. They didn't seem the jokey sort anyway. 

“Then you're clearly not a lawyer. What's do you prefer, Gothic Revival or Second Empire?”

“Um...” Derek scratched the back of his head.

“Not an architect.” Stiles tapped his chin again. “You also don't look like you've lost all of your faith in humanity, so that rules out professor.”

“That's pretty offensive to students.”

“But not inaccurate, right? As nice as that suit is, you're not a fashion person either. You dress to fit in, not to stand out - of course you often don't succeed in that endeavor, to be fair. Can I inspect your watch?”

Obediently, Derek held out his arm.

Stiles whistled softly. “A classic timepiece. Almost understated. Your rank is secure, so you don't need flashy status symbols. You know you're widely respected.” Stiles leaned back, certain of victory. “I say you're a manager. You manage things in a very managerial way.”

“That's your guess?” Derek said, smirking. “That's awfully specific, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well? _Am I right?”_

“Not at all."

Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Looks like I have to admit defeat. I surrender. So what do you do for a living?”

“I'm a hedge fund analyst,” Derek said sheepishly. There was about a fifty-fifty chance of where that coin would land.

“A hedge fund analyst, honestly? I never would have guessed that.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I'd let you analyze my hedge fund any time.“

Derek wasn't sure whether to be scandalized or feel flattered. Maybe Erica was right; he was an undercover geriatric. “That is, uh. Good to know. Thank you. And I also think your hedge fund is... immensely analyzable.”

Stiles grinned to himself, shaking his head lightly. "I think this probably isn't something you get to hear a lot in the rugged world of Wall Street financing, but you're adorable.“

"Oh, you'd be surprised.”

Stiles laughed uproariously. "Yeah? It's all about them cute boys?“

"Sure. Nobody cares how well you monitor that portfolio if you don't look great while doing it.”

"Amen, bro! That's my life motto.“

Derek smiled, lightly nudging Stiles' foot with his own. "You're pretty adorable yourself, if I might say so.“

“You _definitively_ might say so!”

Derek was rewarded with a smile so bright and radiating it made his insides feel like microwaved cheese. On a medical level it should have been concerning, but it really, _really_ wasn't.

“So what do you do?” Derek asked, eager to deflect from the dopey grin he couldn't suppress.

Stiles' eyes narrowed; he smirked. "Take a wild guess.”

Derek scratched a spot behind his ear. "First of all, how old are you?“

“Twenty-four.”

Hm. _Twenty-four._ Given that Stiles was signed at a heat agency, he obviously needed money – maybe as an alternative to student loans or to pay off the residual debt. Erica had mentioned that the prestigious agencies took pride in signing not only pretty faces, but omegas that their clients would feel comfortable with. Cultured. Educated. Bright. Derek had dreaded meeting someone who would solely be interested in discussing Chaucer's legacy or something of that sort (yeah, he was an uncultured swine, alright, he admitted it), but Stiles was anything but snobby and elitist. He was quick-witted and pitiless about it; he would fit right in with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac.

“You're a student.”

Stiles looked comically indignant for a moment. A pout followed, which emphasized how soft and pink his lips looked, how utterly _kissable_. The curved line of cupid's bow captured Derek's attention for a few seconds. “Okay, _fine_ , you got me, I'm a student, but that was so easy to guess it hardly counts. What's my field of study?”

Derek hesitated and then took the opportunity to scrutinize Stiles' attire. Two could play that game. Stiles was wearing khaki slacks and a light blue dress shirt that was complemented with a skinny tie; the look was very smart casual, hovering somewhere between the more formal and informal ends of the spectrum. It suited Stiles, and more importantly he looked at ease.

Going with a hunch, Derek said, “How many lawyer jokes do you know?”

“Let me see. What do you throw to a drowning lawyer?”

“Not a life jacket, obviously?”

“His partners.”

Derek grinned ruefully. “I should have seen that coming.”

“Yep, you should have,” Stiles teased him. “What's the difference between a lawyer and a bucket of manure?”

“The bucket?”

“Correct! You're a fast learner. Okay. Hm. A man in a bar stands up and proclaims, 'All lawyers are assholes!' Another man responds, 'Hey! I resent that!' So the first man asks, "Why, are you a lawyer?' and the second man says, 'No! I'm an asshole!'”

Derek grins. “Something tells me you could go on for the rest of the day.”

“That feeling might be entirely right.”

“So you're a law student.”

Stiles tipped his non-existent hat, bowing to Derek. “Over at Columbia.”

“That's _impressive_.”

“I know, right?” Stiles agreed and laughed. “You know, if you would have asked sixteen-year old me what I would be doing in eight years time, he probably would have guessed playing video games and getting cheeto crumbs on the bed spread. I was an excellent student, but I didn’t have a _vision_. And yet here I am! A law student in New York City.”

_Who is signed at an agency and sells his heats._

For a brief moment, Derek wondered how long Stiles was already doing this. And how often. And with whom – what types of alphas. It was a pointless line of thought to pursue. He shoved the intrusive curiosity aside.

“So,” Derek said and cleared his throat. “Do you know what direction you're going with your degree?”

“No, I'm not sure yet. I might be going corporate, but then again I've always been a DC man, Batman in particular if you're interested in the details, so maybe I'll use my powers for the greater good.” Stiles shrugged. “Or the greater evil.”

“Uh huh. Should I keep an eye on you?”

“That would be the clever thing to do," Stiles replied in a flirtatious tone.

Derek wasn't usually someone who excelled at small talk, so the way the conversation flowed, naturally and never stopping, was a pleasant surprise. It was much more Stiles' doing than his own. Derek was fully aware that his looks promised something he often failed to cash in on. He was too solemn, too quiet, too introverted. The women or men who were interested in him regularly left disappointed, and yet Stiles managed to draw him out of his shell and made it look like an effortless exercise. It proved impossible not to be charmed by the omega, and more than once Derek was so transfixed by a smile or an animated gesture that he found himself nodding along without the slightest idea what Stiles was talking about in that moment.

And then there was the _scent._

It took immense willpower not to suck it in greedily, to taste the nuances of its texture and tone – it had a delicious composition, one of the most intriguing ones he'd ever come across.

Meeting Stiles was a surreal experience.

Fun, no doubt, but _surreal_. Derek didn't have a large sex drive. He masturbated rarely and was never inconvenienced by the horny fantasies that often plagued his colleagues (having a werewolf's nose? Not always great). And yet Derek sat opposite of this omega, this total stranger and thought, _I could be knotting him a few weeks from now_ , and his mouth went dry at that thought, at the thought of Stiles' hole being sloppy wet – warm and welcoming and yielding to the hard length of his cock. The image dissolved in a flush of embarrassment and excitement, inseparably intertwined, and Derek's brain stuttered a shocked _cannot compute_. He felt like a perv, like every unsavory alpha cliche ever, but from one moment to the next he knew with absolute clarity that he wanted Stiles. Just having sex with him would be fantastic, but sharing his heat? _Jesus._ He _needed_ that to happen.

The good thing: Derek was confident that Stiles was enjoying himself, and the way his gaze often lingered a fraction too long on Derek's features, he was also certain that the omega found him attractive. It was a relief. Derek had been ready to abandon the entire heat-sharing mission the second he saw any signs of discomfort, any signs of the omega not being totally into it.

“I feel really comfortable with you,“ Stiles said after they had worked their way through an endless sequence of pastry slices and coffees. "I think we'd be compatible.“

“I agree,” Derek said and ducked his head, deeply pleased that his hunch had been confirmed.

"I'll let the agency know, okay?” Stiles smiled at him and then reached over the table to squeeze Derek's hand for a fleeting moment.  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all the thanks in the world to [docbeeski ](http://docbeeski.tumblr.com/) for her fantastic beta-reading!
> 
> Second, all the thanks to [itsamootpoint](http://itsamootpoint.tumblr.com/), who also offered to beta-read and did a fantastic job as well!
> 
> If you've been following this story so far, you might want to reread chapter one. I've added a scene – the plot will still make sense if you don't read it, but it's relevant for worldbuilding purposes.

  
  
Erica cackled when she saw Derek the next time - which was the evening after his meeting with Stiles, since she was incurably curious and apparently couldn't wait any longer. “You know, it's perfectly fine to admit that I was right,” she said, a victorious smile plastered on her face.

Derek scowled. “It was just a preliminary meeting.“

“I know happy when I see happy, and that _preliminary meeting_ left you positively glowing. You're into the whole heat-sharing thing!”

Derek scowled harder.

Erica beamed harder.

At this point, Derek was afraid to ask what kind of mass tragedy he'd been responsible for in his previous life.

"You should stock up on lube! And non-perishable food items. And lots of water. Also, isotonic drinks. You'll need all the help you can get to stay hydrated, water alone is not gonna cut it.“

Derek released an annoyed huff. "Erica, you're a beta, Boyd's a beta. You're not an expert on omega heats or the ruts they trigger in alphas.“

"You know I write a sex column for my university newspaper!” she retorted. “I even have a sex positivity blog. Speaking of which, you're never around to comment, why is that?“

"Because I'm trying to block out everything you say that relates to sex! Like I’m doing right now. This conversation is _not_ happening. You're like a sister to me.“

"Damn it.“ Erica looked disappointed. "There go my dreams of a pack orgy! And to think I could have had it all.”

"Our pack is family-based!“ Derek exclaimed in exasperation.

Erica held up her hands. "Hey, I can't help that you all hit the genetic lottery! Repeatedly! With baseball bats!”

"You and your depravity. How does Boyd cope with that?“

She snorts. "Boyd is worse than I am. Like, by a _lot_. He's just not that upfront about it. He's a sneak perv, that one.“

" _Not listening anymore!“_ Derek put fingers in his ears and hummed an off-tune melody. Erica rolled her eyes at him, giggling.  
  
  


*

 

It was embarrassing. Ever since meeting Stiles – and first smelling his addictive scent – Derek's libido had woken up from its long slumber. Derek wasn't prepared for how _bothersome_ that was. All of the sudden, he had a hair trigger. He would daydream and his thoughts would inevitably wander to Stiles, to their arrangement, and before he knew it his cock was hardening and straining against the fabric of his pants. Whenever that happened, he was tempted to visit the bathroom (but never did, since he cherished discipline too much; he was thirty-two and not some teenaged knothead).

But the thought of Stiles stayed with him. Fucking that cute little omega was the ultimate fantasy. Derek imagined what it would be like, kneading those perky globes, watching his cock ease in and out of the pink little hole... the thought was incredible. Electrifying. Thrilling. He wondered what it was like to be locked in a sweaty embrace with Stiles, the omega impaled on his dick, held in place by the knot, powerless to do anything but take wave after wave of the hot come that Derek spurted into him.

_God._

He had rarely popped knots in the past, but now it happened even when he masturbated – not reliably, not every time, but far more frequently than it used to. He brushed over the swollen skin with wonder on these occasions. It was soft as silk, and so sensitive that touching it was almost painful. What would it feel like during sex, when it was hugged tight, when it was enclosed by heat? He didn't know. His previous partners hadn't been enthused about handling more than the girth of his already sizable cock, so he'd always willed the knot down when the swelling started. There were tons of myths around knots and knotting, but some people still thought the bigger the knot, the better the alpha. A primitive part of Derek was entirely too smug about his own accomplishments in that area.

Cringing, Derek remembered the sexual education he'd had to endure at his old school. The alphas all had snickered nonstop and made stupid jokes when they were shown fertility graphs and body sketches. It hadn't helped that their weird econ teacher and coach had been the lecturer. Finstock looked disgruntled under the best of circumstances, but that day he'd looked like a thunderous hedgehog. Pissed-off, he'd talked to them about the need for consent and making sure your partner was fine with everything, _including knots_ , and had ended the speech with, “don't be assholes! Don't badger your partner into sex!” to which someone from the audience had quipped, “but don't forget that gentle persuasion is okay!”

Derek hadn't learned much of use that day. He'd been interested in Paige at that time, a beta, so the whole omega thing had left him unaffected and disinterested. It had seemed like a mess to him anyways.

But like everyone else he had checked out the porn.

Heat scenarios were a big fantasy - and wasn't _that_ the understatement of the century. A lot of sites claimed to have real omegas, really in heat – scenarios where even the coldest, most disinterested omegas fell to their knees, arched their backs and presented themselves, scenarios where the omega would beg the nearest alpha to fuck them senseless, craving any knot no matter who was attached to it. Like most porn, it was ridiculous, and like most porn, it was probably heavily exaggerated and fake. And yet. _And yet._ Derek could admit that it was hot, the image of the slutty omega who was practically mad with lust.

Suffice it to say, Derek's porn selection grew considerably.

And he wasn't proud of it.

It was like eating fast food: delicious while it lasted, but greasy and unappealing in hindsight. He thought of his little brother Philip more often than he wanted to, and the reminder was always like the mental equivalent of cold water. It was not like watching porn wasn't _okay_. It was not like jacking off wasn't _fine_. But there was something _off_ about a lot of the omega porn anyway, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it.  
  
  


*

 

Derek knew he was lucky to work for Peter, although some would consider _beneficiary of nepotism_ a far more appropriate term.

Werewolves were usually associated with brawny low-end jobs, and yet Peter had made a name for himself and was considered one of the rising stars of New York's financial scene.

Together with his college buddy Eito Isobe, he'd started _Quaestus Capital Management_ just after finishing his degree. Peter had gone to Dartmouth for undergrad and to Harvard Business School for his masters' degree, and the way Derek imagined it, he'd spent each and every moment at those prestigious institutions schmoozing up to the old money snobs, trying to incorporate himself into their world. Even as a student, he'd been decently successful at the stock market; he had made some clever investments and then built on these successes. First he'd sweet-talked his rich buddies into investing. Then the parents of these buddies. Then the grandparents – and then their associates and their peers. By now, the fund had reached a comfortable mid-size. _Quaestus Capital Management_ was handling about two and a half billion dollars, investing them along various strategies.

Managing a hedge fund was right up Peter's alley. As much as he presented himself as a sensible entrepreneur, he was a gambler at heart – hedge funds, as minimally regulated and private investment partnerships, allowed a great deal of flexibility and high profit margins, but naturally they were also a high-risk business, the most sophisticated game of chance. And that's what Peter loved about it. He was an adrenaline-junkie, a thrill-seeker; he needed his heart to beat fast now and then.

Derek's days were spent living and breathing the stock market, but he couldn't have been more different from Peter. While his uncle considered himself to be some kind of _visionary_ , Derek saw his job as far more mundane: it was his task to erase and eliminate doubts as much as humanly possible. He knew was good at it. He was industrious. Single-minded. A hard worker.

Well, _usually_.

Not so much right now.

Derek had a fresh grind of coffee in front of him. The Financial Times was opened on the first screen and Bloomberg on the second, all while CNBC was droning on in the third, but instead of wading through the data Derek swiveled in his chair until he could look out of the window front and study the bustle of miniature passengers down on the sidewalks. It was a rainy morning and the whole city was cloaked in gray. The little bit of sunlight that slipped through the barrier of clouds was diffuse and sparse. He wondered what Stiles was doing right now. Was he sitting in a lecture? Was he pouring over some law textbook, bathed in the warm glow of a library lamp? Maybe he had another job that guaranteed his income – maybe he worked in a coffee shop, the classic cliche of the student barista. He could be meeting friends right now, or doing something as quotidian as grocery-shopping or playing video games. Or maybe he was meeting his girlfriend or boyfriend. Derek jolted at that thought. Damn. Was that a possibility? He would have thought no, because it should be near impossible to be in a happy relationship and share a heat with someone else – it was a death sentence for any partnership, it _had_ to be – but then he thought of Erica and Boyd, and maybe... _maybe_. No one had ever stated that the omegas signed at the heat agency were actually _single_ , and wasn't that in itself suspiciously neglectful?

Maybe Stiles had...like, a beta partner? Derek had heard that some omegas, well, weren't really satisfied with anything other than – than _alphas_ during their heats. That they craved an alpha's stamina and the biggest...hardest...most _brutal..._

“-fiscal analysis.”

Derek startled so much he jumped an inch out of his chair. _“What?”_

Peter peered into his office, one eyebrow arched in a clear sign of irritation. “Have you been _daydreaming?_ Have you listened to a word I've said? You wanted to send me the Bezuidenhout analysis hours ago.”

“Uh,” Derek stammered. “Sure. It's finished. I'll send it over to you right away.”

“Make sure to do that,” Peter snapped with narrowed eyes.

The door to his office closed again with a click. Derek exhaled a slow, shaky breath of air, trying to clear his head of any Stiles-related thoughts. He attached the analysis to an email and sent it to Peter. Since their little disagreement, his uncle's patience often ran short with him, and Derek tried to inch closer to Eito's sphere of influence whenever possible.

Derek still had a pile of tasks that demanded his attention, but his thoughts quickly wandered back to Stiles. It proved impossible not to think of the pretty omega, especially when Derek didn't want to sleep with someone else's... _someone else_. He wished he could have asked Stiles the more personal questions that had plagued his mind during their meeting. The thought of Stiles having a partner was foreign and alien, really, it _couldn't_ be true – that wasn't the vibe he had gotten from the omega at all. 

Still, the sudden feeling of alarm was hard to shake loose.

With some effort, Derek resisted the temptation to google Stiles, check his Facebook or look for him on other social media platforms. Too creepy. Too invasive. Too much of an alpha cliché. Besides, Ms. Martin had made it clear that they were not to contact each other outside of their heat arrangement, and this stipulation also seemed to cover any internet stalking that Derek might be tempted to indulge in.

Well, maybe…maybe he could ask Erica. All of that sex blogging must have made her knowledgeable about certain things, right?

Derek knew he was going to regret this (so, so much), but he unlocked the screen of his cell and sent Erica a text before he could decide otherwise. She replied almost immediately.

  


**Derek [10:44 AM]**  
_Hey Erica. Do you think it's possible that my heat partner is in a relationship?_

**La Reina [10:45 AM]**  
_Derek! I can't believe this is happening! Ur asking me for advice? U want to tap that wisdom?_

**Derek [10:46 AM]**  
_Relish the moment while it lasts :-P_

**La Reina [10:47 AM]**  
_Oh I'm going to. I'll print this out and frame it and hang it on the wall._

**Derek [10:47 AM]**  
_Erica._

**La Reina [10:48 AM]**  
_I can tell you're having your growly rawrr rawrr face on right now. Hm. Okay first of all let me ask u why you ask that?_

**Derek [10:52 AM]**  
_I don't know. Guess I don't want to be involved in cheating._

**La Reina [10:55 AM]**  
_Weeeell. I can't give you a guarantee obviously, but from what I know cheating during heat is rare. Like it MIGHT happen if two partners are estranged, in the middle of a divorce, breakup or whatever, but if the relationship is fine it's probably not gonna happen. Heat usually has the opposite effect u know. If anything partners of omegas complain that omegas become too clingy._

**Derek [10:56 AM]**  
_Ok._

**La Reina [10:56 AM]**  
_U happy?_

**Derek [10:57 AM]**  
_Yeah sure. Everything is fine._

**La Reina [10:58 AM]**  
_Don't think about it too much okay? I know I can't ask water not to flow, but don't overthink it please. Just enjoy it. It's meant to be a nice experience._

**La Reina [10:55 AM]**  
_Will do my best, Erica. Thanks._

  


Relief flooded Derek as he smiled at the screen and watched his reflection smile back. It was good to hear that the chances of Stiles having a partner were slim; that meant nothing stood in the way of them enjoying the arrangement. And yeah, _of course_ he wanted to make it a fantastic experience for the omega. 

The big question was: how exactly?

Sure, Derek had been told to be _attuned_ to his partner's needs, but that advice was infuriatingly vague. If he didn't understand the nature of those needs, how could he satisfy them? What did omegas in heat want?

Besides the obvious, of course.

Derek wished he could ask someone, but he didn't have many friends to begin with and none of them were omegas. His little brother Philip might have some worthwhile pieces of advice to offer, but just the thought of talking to him about heats made Derek's spinal cord want to climb out of its vertebral channel and strangle his brain. No way in hell was he going to do that.

Turning to Erica again was a similarly distasteful notion. Derek could only handle so much; he didn’t want to have a sex talk that went into details. He shuddered as he imagined his packmate subjecting him to personal anecdotes (“This one time, in band camp…”).

Yeah, he could do without these images. His brain didn’t want to go there.

Listlessly, Derek searched around the web. There were a couple of alpha magazines that claimed to know exactly what omegas in heat wanted. Their message boiled down to: _if you don't do what we say, you're omega partner is going to think you're a shitty provider who's at the bottom of the food chain and will leave you, you feeble pathetic impostor of an alpha. YOU SUCK. Except if you read our article, then you're gonna be totally fine! Read this article. Seriously. Read it! It's going to change your game._

Derek rolled his eyes.

But he did read one of the articles.

The information was generic and vaguely offensive, as far as he could tell. He learned that he was supposed to keep his heat partner well fed ( _'heat is a strenuous experience, so provide enough calories and nutrients!'_ ). He was also supposed to listen to his heat partner attentively ( _'heat hormones wreak havoc on an omega's psyche, so be sympathetic when they get emotional!'_ ). And he was supposed to be in the right mindset for sex at all times, even if woken in the middle of the night ( _'the last thing you want is your omega telling their omega friends that your performance was lackluster, right?'_ ).

But lo and behold, there was a silver lining, a decent payoff for all of the trouble and effort: _'Don't forget that heat sex is special! When else can you actually go all cave alpha on an omega's ass or pussy? Don't forget that the release of endorphins – endogenous morphine, essentially – is increased during heat, so an omega's pain threshold is much higher than usual!'_

Derek scowled, feeling once again like the stereotype of an alpha pervert. Cheap. Vulgar. Primitive.

He turned his cell off abruptly and reminded himself that he had actual work to do. All morning, he had scoured the web for relevant news and dug into reports. New emails arrived to his inbox in five minute intervals.

In complex investment areas, _Quaestus Capital Management_ relied on financial models to estimate revenue and growth. Derek worked on such a model to analyze the Southeast Asian automobile industry. The enthusiasm for the Brazilian, Russian and Indian markets had cooled considerably by now and everyone was looking for the next boom area and the large profit margins that would result from a timely investment. The forecast model was already built, but the work was far from finished; hungering for its daily dose of fresh data, it required constant and careful upkeep. The model was only as good as the assumptions it was build on, and so Derek needed to make sure that all key variables had been added and correctly quantified, and that all information was up to date. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Most people would probably have despaired at having to process mountains of data day after day, but Derek cherished the analytic nature of his task. It was his job to break down complex real life developments into numbers and words until there was a sleek model he could work with, until he'd unraveled the causal pathways at the core of the chaos. And then he could manipulate them. Find out what would happen if he tweaked this or that variable _just so_. In the end, he could glimpse into the future for a short moment, able to determine how markets would develop under different conditions.

Derek lost himself in his work, in the care and upkeep of his pet model. Once the fresh data and variables had been added, he rang up colleagues and industry experts to verify his numbers. Likewise, he conducted a sensitivity analysis to ensure a margin of safety. There was no room for error in this. If they invested millions of dollars on the grounds of his model, it better had to be as good as it could get.

When Derek was happy with his work, he decided to go on a break. It was past midday already. His stomach, sinfully neglected over the course of the last few hours, voiced its discontentment by rumbling now and then. There was a little sushi restaurant a brisk ten minutes walk away from the office. Derek enjoyed the cool air on his face, the wind, the noise; going outside was a welcome change. His glass-encased office high above the ground felt too hermetic sometimes.

When he entered the restaurant, the owner nodded at him and began to prepare his sushi without further ado. There was hardly any waiting time before Derek was served a mixed plate. Derek was especially partial to the flambéed salmon that was so succulent it melted on his tongue. The smoky flavors of the fish were perfectly offset with the salty and sweet notes of soy sauce. There was a giggling couple nearby; two young women – one alpha, one omega. Derek glanced over from the corner of his eyes, smiling automatically. They looked like they were on a first date, at least judging from the nervous and elated energy that surrounded them, the fidgeting, the pleased, spiking scent...

Derek grew still for a moment.

Or were they?

Subtly, he tasted the air. There was an underlying current in the air, the faintest sort of footprint – something that would evolve into a bright beacon in the next days, into an olfactory _I'm here_ sign. The omega girl was approaching her heat.

Suddenly feeling awkward, as if he was intruding on a private moment, Derek tried to behave naturally. Tried not to stare. It was clear that the world was dead to the women; the Mayan apocalypse could have started right next to the rotating conveyor belt and they wouldn't have noticed.

When Derek went back to the office again, he hesitated – and then opened a search tab on his cell. So far, he had learned close to nothing from omegas themselves, how _they_ experienced heats and what _they_ needed from their partners. After looking around for a considerable while, Derek uncovered a message board for omegas ( _Beat the Heat_ ); it was described as a place where they could talk about heat-induced ailments and discomforts, brands of suppressants, household remedies, scent removers and the like. The board was remarkably free of the usual vitriol that was aimed towards the members of the fairest dynamic, but that was probably due to the memberships being restricted and every comment undergoing a screening.

Derek opened the first thread that caught his attention (the title read: 'Reasons why I wouldn't wish heats on my worst enemy').

TaasBaba: _I get to so horny I want to jump every alpha who comes near me._

ivyandbrick: _Really? Because my repulse-o-meter works overtime when I'm in heat. Like if I find someone mildly repulsive normally, I find them SUPER repulsive when I'm in heat._

Pigeon_pitch: _Being in heat is so fucking embarrassing, I hate it. People stare at you like you have two heads._

ivyandbrick: _More like if you had four boobs and two asses._

Pigeon_pitch: _Uggh. Thanks for the imagery._

83supernnnova: _And they're so scandalized! Like fucking excuse me for existing, did you expect me to lock myself up in a safe room or what?_

ivyandbrick: _Suddenly it's anything goes territory, right? Like the level of street harassment becomes so high I try to leave my apartment as little as possible._

83supernnnova: _The fucking entitlement._

Pigeon_pitch: _I mean it's mostly a few perverts who can't keep their hands to themselves but even a handful is too much. Especially when everyone else looks away._

ivyandbrick: _You're supposed to be this delirious sex doll that they can just toy with. Like you're going to be so grateful for some unsolicited fondling in the middle of the day in the middle of the street. Uhm no. That's not how it works. That's not how any of it works._

83supernnnova: _I wish I could stay home, but it's not like I get paid leave._

TaasBaba: _Agreed. Srs I have bills to pay. I have kids to take care of, I can't just vanish from the surface of the earth for a couple of days._

Fukidol: _Where I live (FL), your employer can decide if you they permit you heat leave. And mine doesn't. The bitch thinks its unfair to the other employees if she allows the omegas to go home._

Ivyandbrick: _Where do you work?_

Fukidol: _At a restaurant. I'm a waitress._

83supernnnova: _Good lord._

Fukidol: _We have so many complaints that the omega employers are flaunting themselves, but then there's also an influx of customers who come for the omegas in heat specifically. I swear our boss sends around some kind of perv newsletter, and of course we're specifically ordered to serve them, and they're always hungrier for us than for the food._

Pigeon_pitch: _I can't believe that's legal._

Fukidol: _Like I said, Florida._

Derek stared at the screen in disbelief. He'd never really thought about omegas and heat leave before, and what kind of trouble that potentially entailed. There were only a few omegas at the fund, and they were the tough-as-nails, no-nonsense kind, more assertive than the alphas. Derek had no idea whether their heat leave was paid or not. A quick search told him that heat leave was mandatory in New York, but didn't have to be paid. He supposed it was a benefit that the fund offered anyways, but when it came down to it, _he really had no idea_. He remembered a few instances where a colleague had taken heat leave, or at least everyone had assumed that to be the case. He remembered the inevitable comments, remembered Rick leaning over and whispering, “can you believe she's gonna ride her vibrator for the next days? Omegas like her are _beasts_ in bed. I mean, she's so haughty and cold, there's a lot of unwinding for her to do, right? Man, I'd love to see that.”

Yeah, Derek remembers those comments, but he'd never given them much attention. If pressed he'd probably said that that's the way things were and always had been. Just the usual background noise.

He wasn't so sure about that anymore, and he grew less and less sure the more he read.

When Derek finally closed all his tabs, he felt conflicted. For all that heat-sharing was supposed to be a simple act, something nice and indulging, the fulfilling of a long-dormant fantasy that every alpha supposedly had, it had begun to feel...complicated.  
  
  


*

 

Derek had met Stiles roughly two months ago. Since then, he had been waiting for the omega to hit his heat (and how sleazy was that? Were they playing the thousandth rendition of the Wall Street money guy and his hot piece of college ass? _God_ ). Nevertheless, Derek still felt unprepared when the agency finally called him and he was informed that the level of Stiles' heat hormones was slowly but steadily rising.

Estimated time of arrival: five days.

The employee of _Cupido's Dream_ asked him whether Stiles could come by a bit sooner, which would allow him to acquaint himself with Derek's apartment and feel more comfortable there once the heat would start.

Derek agreed, of course.

And so the date was set.

Stiles would come by in three days.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I researched hedge funds and investment banking for this chapter. Most of the details about Derek's work stem from AMAs (there are some very helpful ones about the everyday life of hedge fund analysts).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got good news and bad news! The bad news is that this isn't the sex chapter (that's chapter six in case you're wondering). The good news is that chapter five isn't too far behind and should be ready to be posted soon.
> 
> Hm. This begins to feel a bit like a prolonged experiment on sexual frustration...
> 
> [itsamootpoint](http://itsamootpoint.tumblr.com/) and [docbeeski ](http://docbeeski.tumblr.com/), thank you for beta-reading this chapter.

  
  


On the big day of Stiles’ arrival, Derek cleaned the apartment until it looked like something taken straight out of a _Home & Design_ magazine. He was content for all of five minutes before he decided it looked too sterile and gave off a subtle yet unmistakable serial killer vibe. Hadn't he read that omegas preferred coziness above all else during their heat? He tried to imagine Stiles sitting on the pristine eggshell-colored couch, tucking his feet under him and leaning into the rustling silk cushions, and failed. Derek sighed and cluttered the apartment to give it more of a lived-in, welcoming feeling. Unfortunately the cluttering began to look too strategic to his eyes and so he cluttered it some more, at which point it looked a mess again and Derek had to tidy it up once more.

It was a understatement to say that Derek was prepared. And nervous.

He had read what felt the entire content of the internet, from credible sources to ludicrous ones, and he now knew more than he'd ever thought possible on the subject of heats. His head was still swimming with information, but he was also cautiously optimistic. He was _prepared_.

Derek had bought every conceivable food item that he could cram into his fridge, and a good deal more on top of that – he had enough fruit to restock an orchard, all the ingredients to open a bakery, and so many fresh cuts of meat that he could have hosted an Australian Christmas barbecue. Since he didn't know what kind of dishes Stiles liked – and he couldn't really contact him over something so trivial, not when he had to go through the agency first – he had chosen a large variety of fresh food. He was a good cook, since his pack prompted him to practice often, and werewolves with their sensitives palates were predestined to be gourmets and gourmands. But he'd also bought carb-heavy snacks and treats for Stiles' sweet tooth, as well as quick and easy comfort food. Rationally he knew it would be enough, more than enough even, but there was still a nagging little voice in the back of his head that insisted there might be one _crucial_ item that he'd missed, and all the while he tried to remember what that was.

But that was not where Derek's preparations had ended.

Because he had no idea how they were supposed to fill the next days until Stiles’ heat truly hit, he had gotten a Netflix account. He'd also bought something dubiously termed 'mood music' and was now the owner of a small armada of candles, ranging from modest tea lights to some candles large enough to light an emperor's palace, all mutely waiting to be ignited in some romantic frenzy. For now, Derek kept them hidden away in a cupboard. Would romance even factor into it? He didn't know, but he was prepared for every possibility.

Speaking of romance: Derek had also stocked up on lube, condoms, massage oil and a number of other helpful items, like irresistibly soft blankets and some omega-specific sex toys. He hoped they would use some of them, but others he had purchased more out of courtesy and grudging obligation. Even with him being a werewolf, they'd done all the STD tests - _again_ , it had to be stressed – and they were both absolutely clean. So that was that.

It was around six o'clock when Derek got the call that a young _gentleman_ was here to see him, a Mr. Stilinski. The doorman's voice – which was usually friendly and warm, very paternal – sounded painfully neutral.

For a split second, Derek wondered how often he sent up omegas like Stiles to various apartments. What did he think of them, and what of the alphas they went to? Derek took a deep breath, trying to center himself. “Send him up, please.”

He scrutinized his reflection in the large corridor mirror one the last time. He was wearing slim designer jeans and a black V-neck shirt. Very casual, but still making an effort. Derek could hear the elevator in the depth of the building, coming closer with each second, and his heartbeat was quicker now, anticipatory.

There was the sound of the elevator's doors smoothly gliding aside.

Then footsteps in the direction of his apartment, footsteps that paused in front of Derek's door.

And then, with a little sigh, an exhale of air not noticeable to human ears, knuckles rapped on his door and the resounding knock startled Derek so much he _flinched_ , even though nothing about it was exactly unexpected.

Five quick strides took him to the door. Derek opened it and there was Stiles, the very reason why he'd fretted so much over the last couple of days. The omega wore casual clothes – layers and layers of them. He wore a zip up hoodie over a plaid shirt, and a graphic tee beneath that. His hair was mostly hidden from sight by a beanie, and thick-framed black glasses were balanced on the upturned slope of his nose. He carried a large backpack, one of those gigantic things you could take on months-long world trips. Maybe he should have looked unremarkable or even geeky in his getup, but something about his fashion choices worked like a charm and only emphasized his various attributes.

Stiles smiled at Derek, and the movement made his moles jump, tugging them upwards. Derek wasn't sure if he'd ever seen anything more fascinating in his life.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Derek answered, and just like that his tongue suddenly felt too heavy. All the words he'd meant to say died an abrupt, silent death. With only two arm's length between the two, he was confronted with the omega's scent, and it was as captivating as it had been all those weeks back. He'd half forgotten it, because scents were so transient and fleeting, so difficult to pin down and keep, but now it unfolded again, all those sweet and smoky notes, all that saltiness and musk - and that peculiar _creaminess_ – and with the weight of memory and familiarity behind the scent, Derek was even more stunned than he had been before. He felt overwhelmed by the urge to draw Stiles into a hug, to breathe more of his scent and close his arms around him, to _protect_ him, to _keep him safe_ , but he did none of that and just stared at the omega in a dumbfounded manner.

Stiles looked at him expectantly, an amused smile on his face.

“Uh. Come in,” Derek finally managed to say and stepped aside.

It was strange, inviting the omega in. The apartment was his sacred space, his miniature-sized territory. He didn't even tolerate a cleaning lady because the scent of strangers made his hackles rise. Everything here was saturated with his scent and with the scent of his packmates. The olfactory footprint had even survived his mad cleaning frenzy, including him vigorously scrubbing the floor Cinderella-style. Inviting Stiles in was not unpleasant, but Derek felt more alert, more on edge as a result.

“It feels like I've crammed half of my apartment in my backpack.” Stiles unbuckled the straps and let it slide to the floor, groaning in relief. He stretched his back until his spine popped loudly. “Much better.”

Derek winced in sympathy. “Let me get this for you.” He shouldered the backpack (which was still warm from Stiles' body heat and indeed very heavy, but no match for his werewolf strength). “Do you want a little tour of the apartment?”

“Yeah, sure. Show me what you got.” Stiles grinned at him. “Man, you actually have an apartment big enough for a sightseeing tour! With my apartment you already see everything moment you step in the door. _Actually_ , you need to take a step back to get the full view.”

“It's not that big,” Derek responded, but of course that objection was a fruitless exercise in modesty.

For New York standards, his apartment was excessively spacious. He didn't want to know what kind of strings Peter had pulled to get his hands on it. It had been a gift for his nephew shortly after Derek had begun to work for the fund. His uncle had been so happy then, so enthusiastic. He'd brushed Derek's worries about nepotism aside – _nepotism is what makes the world go round, nephew, do you really want to take a job where you fill some werewolf quota and are forgotten on the bottom of the barrel? Work for me. You won't regret it._ And so Derek had begun to work for Peter. He wasn't proud of the way it had happened, but he knew that at least he was damn good at his job and brought something valuable to the company.

He showed Stiles the kitchen and the pantry first, opening the fridge to show off the bounty he'd accumulated. “Feel right at home. Take whatever you want.”

Stiles' mouth fell open. “ _Dude_ , are you trying to feed an army? Did you rob a grocery store at gunpoint?”

“I didn't know what you liked,” Derek said and crossed his arms in front of his chest as if that would ward off his acute and intense embarrassment. “And I've read that, uh, that omegas get pretty hungry before their heat hits?”

Stiles snorted inelegantly. “You have no idea. _Hungry_ doesn't even begin to cover it! Right until a day before, and then the mere sight of food makes me sick to my stomach. Biology! Such fun.”

“That sounds like it sucks,” Derek said.

“Preach. Hey, you bought Were Jelly Bellies!”

“Uh, yes. Sometimes I have my packmates around, and they're practically insatiable. They love that stuff. Growing werewolves, you know.”

“How old are they?”

Derek rubbed the back of his head, feeling equally sheepish and resigned. “Early to mid twenties.”

Stiles laughed. “ _Growing_ , huh?”

“I didn't say in which direction! And yeah, they'll probably still give me that excuse when they're seventy and raiding my fridge.” Derek shrugged in a what-can-you-do kind of way. “They're gluttonous monsters and there's no stopping them.”

Stiles grinned, although there was something wistful about it. “It must be nice to have pack around.”

“Yeah...it is,” Derek admitted. “But don't let them hear it, they're smug enough as it is.”

Stiles motioned zipping his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

“Okay,” Derek said, amused. He showed Stiles the spare guestroom next. It hadn't been used in a while, mostly because he either threw out his packmates when they overstayed his welcome or because they ended up joining him in his king-sized bed, claiming they needed the cuddling session for their oxytocin fix. (They were pests.) Derek deposited Stiles' backpack next to the bed.

“You also have your own bathroom,” he said and opened the door to it, revealing not only a shower but also a luxuriously big bath tub.

“Oh god, this is awesome.” Stiles practically moaned at the sight. “Highrise apartments are the _best_. I can take a bath and look at the city. That's obscene!”

Derek's chest puffed up with pride, taking the compliment as though he had personally built the bathroom from scratch. “Hopefully not literally” he remarked. “You have blinds, you know.”

“Your neighbors aren't that liberal?” Stiles guessed. “More's the pity.”

Derek showed Stiles the rest of the apartment – with the notable exclusion of his own bedroom, because that would have been way, _way_ too awkward. Seeing the rooms with Stiles’ eyes, he noticed for the first time in a long while how sterile and bland they looked. There were no family portraits, no travel souvenirs, no book shelves or other things that indicated what he was fond of. The apartment had come fully equipped with furniture, but he'd gotten rid of it because here was nothing worse than living in the remembrances of other people's lives. Peter had insisted that he hired an interior designer, and she'd done fine work, but the result was impersonal. It was a model apartment. Like one from a catalog. You could put pictures of it online and there would be nothing revealing about it. Still, when it came down to it, the thing Derek liked most about his apartment was the way it felt like like _territory_ , like _pack_. Like security.

Well, that and the view.

The tour ended in the living room, which was the indisputable highlight of the apartment.

Stiles mouth fell open when he saw the large window. His fingers found the light switch, turning it off. The room was suddenly cast in shadows, but there was still enough light to illuminate the contours of the living room – what felt like millions and millions of lights, to be exact, and they all glittered in front of them. Derek always tolerated Manhattan best when he saw least of it. Like this, the city was a captivating sight, a dense stretch of urban jungle, thrumming with the energy of countless heartbeats.

Stiles wandered to the window as if in a daze. “DUDE. Are you kidding me?” He turned to Derek. “You can see _the park_ from your apartment?”

Derek nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Parts of it.”

“ _Most_ of it. Holy fuck. This is...holy. _Fuck_.”

“You like it?” Derek asked.

“ _Like it_? It feels like I've fallen through the wardrobe and straight into Narnia! I thought apartments like yours were an _urban myth_!”

Derek shrugged awkwardly. “No...”

  
  


  
[](http://postimg.org/image/rtxdj6fil/full/)   
  


  
  


“So this is how the other half lives,” Stiles said with wonder. “Dude, your apartment is pure real estate porn! I can only see the trash boxes of the fast food joint next door from my windows. I have to keep them closed so the rats won't come in... And speaking of which, I think they've formed some sort of autocratic government. They're getting a bit too organized for my liking.”

While Stiles was talking, Derek took the opportunity to really _look_ at him, to take in his features. It was gratifying to let his gaze linger. He felt a sort of triumphant, swelling pride that Stiles liked the apartment so much, was so _awed_ and _impressed_ by it. The lights of the city were reflected in his eyes as miniature points of light, and Derek felt possessive and wistful all at once. The strange blend of urges left him reeling. _This is a business arrangement_ , he reminded himself. There was no need to puff up like some comical caricature of an alpha.

All of this was fake.

Stiles wasn't interested in _him_. He was interested in the financial compensation Derek provided.

And Derek's interest was just as superficial, if not more so - just barely skin-deep.

“I should get into investment banking, if it pays like this,” Stiles said and touched the window with one hand, his fingers splaying against the cool glass.

“Hedge funds and investment banking aren't the same thing,” Derek corrected him. People always got that wrong.

“I _totally_ knew that. I was just testing you.”

Derek's lips twitched. “Sure you did.”

With the living room, they'd finished the tour of the apartment. An awkward silence rose between them. Stiles was still stunned by Derek's apparent wealth, and Derek wondered – for the first time – if there was something negative to it, a current of uneasiness. Derek probably looked like a pampered trust fund baby to the omega now, and that was an entirely inaccurate portrayal of his upbringing. He resisted the urge to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. At least Stiles didn't seem to harbor any speciest prejudices. There were enough people for whom _werewolf_ and _Upper West Side apartment_ were irreconcilable concepts that couldn't exist in the same vicinity.

“Okay, so,” he said.

“So.”

“You can unpack your stuff in the guestroom if you want. Basically anything is yours to use – the TV, the Xbox, the fridge...”

“Thanks, man.”

“My pleasure. So...uh. How are the next days going to play out? The agency told me that it's important we get to know each other, but what does that entail?”

“Oh, nothing to stressful, don't worry. Mostly we just need to grow accustomed to sharing the same space. That's all, really. No need for excessive amounts of small talk. We don't have to be on top of each other all the time.”

Derek's mind blanked.

Stiles winked at Derek. “Until that time comes around, of course.”

“ _Jesus_ , you're going to be the death of me,” Derek mumbled.

“Maybe the little death,” Stiles quipped and then laughed when Derek groaned. “Have I mentioned that I like puns?”

After that, Stiles settled into the guest room and unloaded his backpack. When he emerged, he was wearing sweatpants and a comfy-looking shirt whose once red color had mostly faded into a peach tone. Under his arms, he was carrying a couple of books and a slim laptop. “I'm gonna revise some stuff for school,” he explained to Derek and then made himself comfortable in the living room.

While Stiles buried himself in textbooks, Derek busied himself in the kitchen. He never once forgot the omega was there. It was a like a physical thing, being aware of a stranger in his territory, someone who wasn't pack. Every turning page, every rustling bit of fabric diverted his attention, making him focus on the source of that noise. And yet that awareness wasn’t unpleasant. It was nothing like the feeling he usually got from strangers encroaching on his territory, where every one of his instincts was set off to the point of him nearly growling at them.

  
  


*

  


Preparing the dinner of roast chicken, rice and creamed spinach was an easy enough task.

Derek chopped celery, carrots, thyme and rosemary, diced garlic, rubbed the chicken in oil and sprinkled it with black pepper, all of his movements quick and efficient, long practiced. His dad, a beta architect, had worked from home for many years and Derek had often helped him cook. He'd always been much quieter than his siblings and treasured these moments alone with him.

The kitchen was saturated with the smell of the baking chicken when Derek heard a book being shut in the living room. A moment later, Stiles peaked into the kitchen. “ _Oh my god_. Whatever you're doing smells _amazing_.”

“Thank you,” Derek said, genuinely pleased.

Stiles seemed undecided for a few moments. Then he asked, “do you mind if I study here?”

“No! Of course not, come over.”

And so Stiles did. He gathered his books and laptop perched himself on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, avidly tracking the movements of Derek's fingers. Derek had first considered roasted pears with espresso mascarpone cream – always a favorite with his pack – but in the end he'd decided to prepare a pecan pie instead, which would be served with walnut ice cream and pieces of roasted almonds and caramel. Judging by the way Stiles couldn't tear his gaze away from the dessert preparations, that had been the right choice.

“Dude, how the hell are you real,” the omega muttered.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said and buried his nose in his books again.

To Derek’s immense satisfaction, the food turned out _perfect_.

He had to remind himself to pay some attention to own plate instead of just staring at Stiles with stars in his eyes and glowing cheeks – it was ridiculous, freaking ridiculous, how much he puffed up under the omega’s praises and compliments. Stiles dug in with gusto. A simple 'nice, dude' made Derek feel as if he'd just won the New York marathon, while Stiles moaning that that was the ‘best chicken he’d ever had’ made the tips of Derek’s ears burn in a bright, unflattering red. It was disconcerting to discover that alpha instincts were not only a real thing but also something that affected him. Up until now he'd assumed every account to be wildly exaggerated.

That night, when Derek couldn't find sleep, he listened to the rhythmic hammering of Stiles' heart a few rooms over. Maybe it was intrusive; humans had different boundaries than wolves after all. But Derek couldn't bring himself to stop listening or to feel overly guilty about it. It was soothing. Comforting. It was like the pulsing light of a beacon in the dead of night, cutting through patches of fog with precise regularity.

Derek listened and gradually sank into a deep sleep.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find a time lapse video of me drawing the city picture [here](http://septima-sum.tumblr.com/post/139513418855/im-having-fun-with-the-art-for-how-to-build-a#notes).
> 
> 11/21/16: I removed the second picture. I just wasn't feeling it anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks go to [docbeeski ](http://docbeeski.tumblr.com/) and [itsamootpoint](http://itsamootpoint.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this fic.

  
  
  
Stiles shuffled into the kitchen wearing a half-faded, comfy looking t-shirt that featured a piñata in cheery colors and the bold letters saying “I'd hit that.” He squinted disdainfully against the morning sunlight that streamed into Derek's kitchen. His hair stood up in every direction and looked soft to the touch.

Derek hid his smile behind the newspaper. “Not a morning person?” he asked neutrally.

Stiles grunted something pre-verbal and made a beeline for the coffee pot, pouring himself a generous cup. After taking the first long gulp, he groaned indecently and closed his eyes in bliss. “This is a lifesaver. This is the sweet nectar of gods.”

“Are you alright?” Derek asked, amused.

“I'm getting there. By the heavens, this is the most glorious thing I've ever seen.” Stiles regarded his cup of coffee with unfettered adoration. “Hot black liquid motivation. Uhh yeah.”

“Are you sure you're supposed to have an unlimited fix of this?” Derek looked at Stiles with raised eyebrows.

A dagger of a dark glare was sent in his direction. “Don't stand between me and my coffee. That's the dictionary definition of bad life choices.”

“Now I'm _sure_ you're not supposed to have an unlimited fix.”

Stiles hugged the coffee pot in a proprietary gesture and armed himself with a spoon. “I will defend this with my life.”

Derek held up his hands in defense. “Alright, hotshot. It's all yours.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said sweetly and put the coffee pot down next to his plate.

Breakfast was an elaborate affair. There were heaps and mountains of soft pancakes, crisp bacon, French toast, porridge, fruits and freshly squeezed orange juice – much more than two people could consume by themselves. Or at least that's what Derek had assumed, before he saw Stiles dig in as if he’d been starved for weeks on end. He _massacred_ the food.

Stiles looked up when he found Derek staring. He seemed self-conscious all of the sudden and swallowed a big pancake bite with a loud gulp. “Oops, sorry. I know I pig out and it's super gross.”

“The food is there to be eaten,” Derek assured him. (Yeah, he was… surprised, okay, but the omega didn’t need to know about it). “And besides, I'm used to werewolves. Don't worry, I'm not judging.”

“Well, in that case...” Stiles said and angled for another slice of French Toast.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


It was a quiet day.

Stiles revised his study notes while Derek stayed in the master bedroom and makeshift office and worked on his latest financial model. He felt distracted and on edge, and subsequently didn't make a lot of progress with his numbers’ game, but even a small headway was better than none. Some days were less of a race and more of a crawl, and that was alright with him. He was a steady worker.

He met Stiles over the coffee pot several times when they were both in need of their daily fixes – albeit Derek's appreciation of coffee was more of an aesthetic and sensory nature, whereas Stiles outright flirted with the idea of a caffeine IV drip because _he needed it_ (his words). They made some small talk on these occasions, just the usual back-and-forth of what-are-you-doing-now. Explaining his job to Stiles proved to be surprisingly difficult. The omega's eyes glazed over after a few sentences of Derek rambling about the intricacies of financial modeling.

“So your job entails… doing something with numbers,” was the omega's conclusion.

Derek tsk-ed at that, but didn't fare better when Stiles told him what he was learning right now: trademark and copyright law.

“Yeah, I know what you're thinking,” Stiles said. “It may sound juicy at first, but the devil is in the details. Copyright acquisitions and transfers? Licensing agreements? Foreign trademark matters? Not fun.” Stiles dove into a long-winded explanation that was riddled with terminology that made Derek's head _hurt_. He dimly realized that the words stopped at some point when he found Stiles looking at him expectantly.

Panicked, Derek offered a noncommittal, “hmmm.”

“Exactly!” Stiles nodded emphatically.

Stiles got a call around noon. Even from a few rooms over, Derek could hear his voice clearly if he concentrated. He shouldn't listen, he really shouldn't, but since he knew so little about his guest… after a brief but intense debate with himself, curiosity got the better of him.

Which was unfortunate – and a prime lesson against eavesdropping – because Stiles was talking to his _dad_. This had never been a part of Derek's fantasies. This was _real_ in all the ways he didn't want it to be.

“...hmm-hm, yes,” Stiles said. “Sure. No, what? I'm studying right now. Not that it's going well, I don't know how anyone can study transactional contracts without shooting themselves in the face. That field is populated by people who hate life and want to suck the joy out of everyone in their vicinity… Sort of like dementors.”

His dad said something on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, just tired. I'm gonna call you in a few days, okay?”

A pause in which Derek could hear nothing above low murmuring.

“ _Dad_. I'm gonna be busy. _You know._ My quarter-yearly business?”

Another pause. Soft words.

“Yeah, _I will._ Promise. Absolutely. I'm always careful. Ahuh. Okay. You too. And don't forget I talk to Melissa regularly, you're not as stealthy as you think you are! Yeah. You know what, you're lucky you're in law enforcement. You'd be a failure as a criminal.”

Stiles' dad was in _law enforcement?_ Derek experienced a brief but intense crisis, only barely resisting the urge to groan and bury his head in his hands. This was _bad._ Bad, bad news. Maybe he could refrain from the whole heat-sharing thing and just give Stiles some foot rubs? It wasn't like their arrangement was illegal (at least in _this_ state), but he'd rather not envision ever meeting Stiles' dad, whom he suddenly imagined to be of the tobacco-chewing and shotgun-cleaning kind, the type of guy who'd only be too happy to riddle Derek's body with bullets after he discovered that Derek had _dishonored_ his son.

“Hah, yes. But I'm also your only kid, so... No. Not an achievement. That's like the participation award I got at that talent competition in third grade.”

Even through the phone, Derek could hear Stiles' father laughing.

“Love you too!”

Stiles ended the call and went back to work, softly humming to himself, his mood lifted – not knowing, of course, that Derek had listened to every word.

Derek's ears burned in shame.

He felt _wretched_ , and knowing that that feeling was justified only made it worse.

When Stiles got another call an hour or so later, Derek scrambled to put earphones on and listened to the loudest rendition of The Black Keys that his eardrums could handle.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


When evening rolled around, he ventured over to Stiles. “Any ideas for dinner?”

Stiles' head was in his hands, his eyes half closed. He was massaging his temples. “Something not too heavy?”

Derek nodded and then went into the kitchen to prepare a rice stir-fry with vegetables and fish.

It tasted alright, he found, but during dinner Stiles picked at the food listlessly and hardly ate anything.

“Everything good?” Derek asked.

“Sure. Just not that hungry right now.”

“Oh,” Derek muttered and wondered what he could have done differently. Should he have used chicken instead of fish? A different seasoning? Less oil? He felt as if he had _failed_ on a fundamental level. Failed as an _alpha._

Stiles snorted in amusement, gently nudging his foot against Derek's. “Stop worrying. Your food is fine, I'm just not hungry. Always happens. Part of the whole leak week deal.”

“I'm not worrying,” Derek insisted in an attempt to save some scraps of his dwindling dignity. Going by the amused side-eye Stiles sent his way, the strategy wasn't successful. And yeah, Derek had read something about fluctuating appetites, but theoretical knowledge and practical evidence were apparently two pairs of shoes.

By now Derek had been around Stiles long enough to guess how unusual it was to see the omega so quiet, so subdued. He was pale and had dark shadows under his eyes, looking weary, worn thin. But that was only to be expected after a day of studying dry legal texts, wasn't it? Derek tried to imagine what Stiles would look like in a few years' time – tried to imagine him in a snappy suit, with his hair gelled back, shuffling papers, talking strategy with a client. A smart lawyer; everything about him controlled and powerful.

It was an easy image to conjure.

Derek would bet a good amount of money on Stiles being enormously tenacious, someone not easily deterred after he had made a decision. There was a good deal of strength under that exhaustion.

“Why did you decide to become a lawyer?” Derek asked him.

“Hm,” Stiles deliberated while he examined a piece of broccoli. “I'm good at research. Kind of obsessive about it, actually. Detail-oriented.”

“Wouldn't the most obvious choice be actual research then?”

“Do you know what researchers are paid? No, thank you. I'm not living off scraps until I'm forty. Besides, I just enjoy getting the better of people, you know? Demonstrating that I'm _smarter_ than them. Law firms are competitive and highly vicious environments, and that's just the way I like it. I'm kind of an asshole that way.” Stiles grinned at Derek, shrugging his shoulders in an articulate sorry-not-sorry motion.

“Being an asshole will get you far in that trade,” Derek teased him gently.

There was an amused glint in Stiles' eyes. “Hopefully! That's what I'm counting on. How did you go into the whole hedge fund thing?”

Derek exhaled quietly, not sure how to put his thought process into words. “I like financial modeling,” he said hesitantly. “I did that already as an intern, and I had top grades in school, but my job projects were still pretty slim.”

Stiles frowned. “What? Why?”

“Make an educated guess,” Derek replied dryly.

“Because you're a _werewolf_?” Stiles asked incredulously. “ _Really_? That’s such bullshit!”

“Most people are very particular about whom they entrust with their money,” Derek said and shrugged. He was long past the point of getting angry about the inherent unfairness of it all. “Stereotypes would work in my favor if I wanted to become a stuntman or a bouncer or something like that, but in my current line of business of being a financial analyst? Not so much. Werewolves are seen as brash and moody, as prone to violence. That's not the qualities you want the guy handling your money to have.”

“That's fucking bullshit,” Stiles said hotly. “That's _really_ fucked up.”

Again, Derek shrugged. “It is what it is. But to answer your question, my uncle started a hedge fund and invited me to join him. I took that opportunity. I'm not crazy about hedge funds per se, but at _Quaestus_ I can do what I'm good at without being second-guessed all the time. It's a shame about the nepotism, but maybe I make a larger statement that werewolves can be more than muscles.”

Stiles nodded vehemently. “That makes perfect sense.”

“That's what I like to tell myself,” Derek said with a hint of irony.

“I totally get you,” Stiles carried on. He seemed more energized now, almost agitated. “I'm partly doing this whole law thing because I _know_ it's not expected of me. I want to show them.”

“Show whom?” Derek asked.

“Everyone who thinks I'll run home crying if the going gets too tough. Everyone who thinks I shouldn't mingle with the big boys and girls. There was this alpha jock asshole at my school who suggested I would make a _pretty decoration for any office_ , his actual words.” Stiles grinned sharply. “That douche obviously wanted to ruffle my feathers with that shit, so I don't really care about that, but… there were others. One teacher that I really liked suggested it might be a very _stressful_ occupation. Very _time-consuming_.”

Derek scratched the back of his head. “It's true though, isn't it?”

“Of course. But that's not what she told other people. She only meant well, I know that, but that's unfortunately what makes it so hurtful. She assumed I would inevitably start family and do the whole kid-raising part all on my own. Working hours for associate lawyers are notoriously brutal, and even later on it's not a family-friendly job. I guess she thought why even do it if you're not going to go all the way.”

“Oh,” Derek said, now finally getting it.

“Like, save yourself the time, the money. Save yourself the trouble. My own dad said something similar, too – that it's a demanding and cut-throat career, did I really think about that?” Stiles smiled bitterly. “I mean, he supports me now, but it did cross his mind that I should maybe pursue something more laid-back. It was as if he didn't know me at all. I’m not here for that.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said with genuine sympathy, full well knowing that that mattered little in the grand scheme of things. “That sounds rough.”

Stiles stabbed a tomato with his fork. “It's fine.”

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Stiles helped Derek to clean the kitchen, toweling the dishes dry that Derek washed. They worked in a companionable silence for a while. It was gratifying how effortless it was to share the same space. Derek suspected that they would have gotten along equally well under other circumstances. There was just _something_ about Stiles that made him feel like... not like pack, not a like a friend, but. _Close_. Like he could be either or both one day.

“So. What do you like to do for fun?” Stiles asked.

Derek cringed internally. “Well... my packmates sometimes come over. I like hanging out with them.”

Stiles nodded as if that was exactly what he had expected to hear. “You're a workaholic, aren't you?”

“With a job like this, it's a given.” Derek shrugged.

“I get that,” Stiles said. “But do you have... any hobbies?”

“Hobbies?” Derek echoed.

“Maybe mildly embarrassing ones?” Stiles grinned at him. “Maybe you build tiny little ships or collect porcelain dolls or are really into line-dancing?”

“Nothing like that,” Derek was quick to deny.

“Aw man.” Stiles looked partly amused and partly disappointed. “I totally have you pegged. You're one of those granola-eating fitness guru guys who do cardio at six in the morning.”

“I do cardio in the _evenings_ ,” Derek replied with an air of superiority and ignored the frankly absolutely immature way Stiles snickered. “What do you like to do for fun, anyway?”

“Oh, just the usual.”

“What's that?”

“Some clubbing. Hanging out with friends. Some gym and sport stuff – I love laser tag! – but not that much, admittedly. I'm a movie buff. And...” Stiles looked away and mumbled something that was inaudible even to enhanced werewolf hearing.

“What was that? I didn't get that.”

“Some MMOGs,” Stiles admitted sheepishly. “And occasionally even the good old pen-and-paper roleplays. There. Now you know everything.”

“Really?” Derek asked with a fond smile. “I find that hard to believe. I'm sure there's a lot more I don't know about you.”

Stiles grabbed his arm all of the sudden, his face lighting up with an epiphany. “You know what we should do?”

“No?”

“We should play _two lies, one truth_ ”

“What?” Derek asked with trepidation.

“You’ll love it! It’s a game. Totally straightforward, don't worry. I tell you three outrageous statements. One of them is true, the others are made up. You have to identify the true one. If you manage to do that, you get a point. If you pick a lie, I get a point. It's played in turns, and whoever gets fifteen points first wins and can ask for something huge from the other person.”

Derek looked dubious at that prospect. “Like a kidney?”

“Or like a dare.” Stiles' face was bright with unholy glee. “We should totally play it! Are you up for it?”

“Isn't that game kinda pointless with werewolves?” Derek hedged.

“Haha, buddy, you might think so.” Stiles looked gleeful. “But you didn't factor into that that my best friend is a werewolf! I know for a fact that I can even fool a lie detector.”

“Okay, okay,” Derek said, readily admitting defeat. “We can try it. Even if it sounds like a college drinking game.”

“Oh, it usually is! But I think we should play the teetotal variant.” Stiles' finger poked into Derek's side. “Literally. Can you set up a kettle of tea?”

“I don't have a choice in any in this, do I?” Derek grumbled, but his reluctant attitude was only for show, and a not convincing one at that. He could see the value in the game. It sounded like a fun way of fishing for embarrassing and revealing information, and as unenthusiastic as he was about disclosing any of that himself, he was _dying_ to know what kind of skeletons Stiles had hidden in his closet.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


They went over to the living room, Derek extending the main section of the couch so that they had ample enough space to lounge about. Stiles discovered a multi-colored blanket and made himself comfortable, huddling into the buttery soft fabric and sipping steaming tea infused with honey. Derek was barefoot and wearing a comfortable sweatpants and t-shirt combo while the lights of the city were veiled by the curtains, casting a soft residual glow into the room. 

“I should start,” Stiles said. “Okay. First statement: I have a collection of pieces of Polish Soviet propaganda. Second statement: in elementary school, I once called dispatch on a kid I couldn’t stand, claiming I’d seen him steal our neighbor’s poodle. Third statement: I once modelled for a skater magazine. I was fantastic. Dare I say I _embodied_ that hipsterish, grungy spirit? Because I did.”

Derek listened attentively, but Stiles had been right about being practiced liar, and wasn't _that_ an unsettling notion. There was no blip in the rhythm of his heartbeat, no hitch in his breathing. But Derek had an unfair advantage, didn't he, having eavesdropped on the omega's phone conversation prior that day. He knew that Stiles' father was in law enforcement. “The second statement is true.”

Surprise flickered over Stiles' features. He looked put out for a moment. “Yeah, you're right.”

Given that he'd cheated his way to victory, Derek couldn't bask in the moment of glory. “Maybe I'm just better than a lie detector.”

“Maybe you got lucky,” Stiles shot back.

“Maybe it's Maybelline,” Derek replied and Stiles broke out in shocked laughter, nearly spurting tea all over Derek's designer furniture.

“One point for me,” Derek said softly. “My turn. First statement: when I was a kid, I wanted to become an ornithologist. Second statement: I can curse in Mandarin. Third statement: I have a shark tattoo.”

Stiles' whiskey eyes were on him, assessing him. Derek felt flustered under the heated scrutiny of his gaze.

“You can curse in Mandarin.”

Derek dipped his head, doing his best to smother the flash of involuntary annoyance. “Correct. How did you guess?”

“Just a hunch. But more importantly, how did you learn to curse in Mandarin?”

“Do you know Firefly, the Joss Whedon series?”

For a second time in short succession, Stiles' mouth fell open. “You're a Firefly fan?” he asked, somewhat shrilly. “No way!”

“It's a good series,” Derek said defensively. “High production value. Snappy dialogues. Engrossing characters.”

“Dude, _I_ know that! I'm just surprised _you_ do!”

“There's a lot about me you don't know,” Derek replied.

“Holy testicle Tuesday. I'm beginning to see that.”

Derek snorted, amused. “A friend from college heard me randomly swear one day, I think it just was _gǒushǐ_ , dog shit? Like in episode four, Shindig? But anyway, he took pity on my pronunciation and now I can swear with the best of Chinese sailors.”

“Man, that's _awesome_!”

“ _Tā mā de_ , it is,” Derek agreed. “I'm amazing like that.” He laughed when the omega cuffed his arm. “Your turn, buttercup. We're at a draw at the moment.”

He pretended to dodge the dark gaze that Stiles sent his way. The omega cracked his knuckles. “Alright. Prepare for this one. The kid gloves are off. First statement: I was once totally traumatized by a sex education class. I refused to hug my father after attending it. Second statement: I have six toes on every foot. My parents considered surgery, but in the end they decided against it. Just more of me to love, y’know? Third statement: my first boyfriend tried to convert me to Mormonism. Man, did we have a confusing relationship.”

That one was much harder. “Statement three?” Derek guessed.

Stiles smirked. “Nope. The first statement is true.”

“Really?” Derek asked. “How did that come about?”

“Mandatory health class for omegas. We had like a double period of that every year. In the first grade, we got pamphlets, the really terrible, old-fashioned sort. _Your Body and You._ Turned out, they described heat sex as a _very special kind of embrace._ I was terribly afraid of hugging people after that! The next time my dad hugged me, I broke out in tears. Straight up inconsolable sobbing.”

Derek chuckled. “That's awful.”

“Yeah, good times.” Stiles snorted, rubbing his eyes. “Two to one, city wolf. Don't start slacking.”

They kept playing the game, learning all sorts of curious info along the way. Derek could never tell whether Stiles was lying or not, at least not through his enhanced werewolf senses. Under the circumstances, flying blindly was both fun and kinda disconcerting. When Stiles correctly guessed that Derek was the first werewolf kid to ever have gone to the second last round of the national Spelling Bee, the omega finally reached the coveted fifteen points.

“I'M THE WINNER!” Stiles yelled. “The winner!” He jumped onto his feet and began to dance. It was the funniest sight Derek had seen in a long time. Stiles was a hilariously uncoordinated dancer. The best thing about that was that he didn't even _care_ about it. He was confident and enjoyed himself, all motion and boundless energy, and if his limbs flailed about the place as if he had no bones or no joints, so be it.

At some point Stiles stopped the victory dance to catch his breath, panting a little. Derek took the opportunity to study his form and the way it was backlit by the glittering lights of New York.

Stiles was breathtaking.

Utterly, stunningly _beautiful._

It wasn't the first time Derek noticed that, but it hit him viscerally now, deep in his gut, like a goddamn _punch_.

Especially when Stiles turned to him and fixed Derek with a victorious smirk. “You know what that means, alpha. You know what we agreed to. I can pick my _reward_.”

Derek's mouth went dry. “You were pretty vague about that part.”

“Was I?” And then Stiles _stalked_ his way over to Derek – his movements now feline and graceful, entirely purposeful. He stopped right in front of Derek, looking down at him. “I hope you're prepared to pay, big guy.”

Derek nodded dumbly. “Anything,” he croaked.

Stiles' honey-brown eyes glittered with intent, one eyebrows arched as if to issue a challenge. Heat shot straight to Derek's groin at that sight. He had a thousand ideas of what he wanted to do for Stiles, and to him.

“I want a massage,” the omega demanded.

“A massage?”

“Yes.“ Stiles smiled innocently. “You know how to give those, right?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. _Yes._ Sure.”

“Good. I've had a kink in my back all day, maybe you can help me work that out.”

And then Stiles grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head, slowly but surely, in one fluid motion.

He was, consequently, half-naked all of the sudden; he still stood so close to Derek that the werewolf imagined he could feel the body heat radiating off him.

Derek's mind _flatlined._

If he had thought the omega stunning before, it was nothing compared to what he was thinking now.

Stiles was flawless.

His clothes had hidden a well proportioned body: he had broader shoulders and more muscle definition than Derek would have guessed, but his overall appearance was still rather slender when compared to Derek's bulky werewolf physique. The omega's skin looked soft to the touch and was randomly dotted with moles. Derek had never cared about moles one way or another, but he found them charming on Stiles, astonishingly pretty and unique. Instantly, he was struck with the desire to map them on Stiles skin, to learn their position with his fingertips and trace them with his tongue, like a secret map only he knew of. A trail of dark hair led down from Stiles' navel and vanished beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging Derek’s attention along its trajectory.

Stiles was exactly the type of guy Derek found attractive.

But it wasn't just his beauty that killed Derek – it was the attitude that came along with it.

Because Derek found Stiles’ eyes trained on him when he looked up. The honey-brown of his irises glittered beneath the dark fan of his lashes. The omega appeared to be entirely unfazed, entirely unruffled, even as Derek felt heat rising into his cheeks.

Surely, on some level, Stiles' confidence was outrageous.

It wasn't like Derek had never seen a naked omega before. This was the internet age, and besides you could hardly make it a block in New York without being bombarded with ads that featured half-naked omegas in suggestive poses. Print, art, media: everyone was appreciative of the naked omega form, no questions asked. But Derek had never seen an omega pull off his shirt so casually, so offhandedly, as if there was nothing to it.

There was a smirk hiding in the corners of Stiles' mouth now, his eyes warm and dark with knowledge, and still he didn't seem ashamed or self-conscious. Not one iota.

Faintly, Derek remembered the voice of his grandma, who had warned him of situations like these – of omegas like _that_ – but he felt light-headed to the point of being high, and all warnings evaporated like mist before the rising morning sun...

He was acutely aware of the space between him and Stiles, of the inches of air that separated them.

He was even more acutely aware that Stiles' nipples were directly at his eye level. What pink little nubs they were, begging to be squeezed and teased, begging to be tasted, licked, and kissed–

Derek leaned forward – slowly, ever so _slowly_ , his eyes locked with Stiles', gauging the omega's reaction – and then ghosted a hot breath of air over his nipples. The effect was instantaneous. Stiles _shivered_. His nipples stiffened under the attention, perking up in an unmistakable display of approval.

_More._

_I need more._

Encouraged, Derek closed the last half inch that still separated him from Stiles. The contact was _electric_ and struck sparks of pleasure in him, and he sucked at the nipple, kissed it, dragged his tongue and teeth against it - never quite rough, never merely gentle. He stopped only to pay attention to the other nipple in turn; the poor little thing probably felt bitterly neglected by now.

Above him, Stiles _whined._

His hands buried themselves in Derek's hair, tugging on him, _urging_ him on.

Derek was only too keen to comply, eager to coax more sounds of that calibre out of Stiles. He teased the omega’s nipples until until the little nubs were as hard as they’d probably ever get, dark pink now and glistening with his spit. When he drew back to look at Stiles, he found that the omega’s mouth had fallen open. His eyes found Derek’s, looking at him with hunger and reverent amazement.

Most strikingly, Stiles' scent filled Derek's nostrils – the scent of skin, of omega, of _Stiles_. Of wood smoke and pine and honey, or something close to it; for all that Stiles was obviously getting aroused right now, the scent was soft at the moment, subdued. Not more fragrant than an unopened blossom would be, its petals still tightly wound. Derek wanted to – wanted to –

Before he could articulate that thought, Stiles _climbed_ him and Derek found himself with a lap full of horny omega. It felt like the axis of his world tilted sideways. His arms acted on their own accord and encircled the omega, holding him _steady_ and _safe_ and _close._

Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut as he leaned forward, and a heartbeat later their lips met in a kiss.

It didn’t feel like they were were kissing for the first time. It was not soft. Not hesitant. There was nothing patient or gentle about it. It was animal hunger, gluttonous and cruel – what they had was Stiles demanding everything of Derek, and Derek only too willing to give it to him. He groaned into the kiss. The hot drag of Stiles’ tongue against his sent a shivering thrill through his nervous system. The sensation went straight to his dick. He was sure he had never wanted someone as much as he wanted Stiles in this very moment. It was _maddening_ , the way Stiles’ thighs bracketed his own, the way the omega pressed against him.

And it was not enough.

Not _nearly_ enough.

Derek’s hands found Stiles’ ass and squeezed those perfect firm globes, squeezed them _hard_ , and dragged Stiles closer.

Stiles groaned like a wounded man and began to grind down on him in slow, undulating movements, and pleasure sparked along Derek’s spine as he pushed _up_ , as they engaged in a suggestive little dance. By now Derek’s length was achingly rigid and barely confined by the loose fabric of his sweatpants. He pressed into the space between Stiles’ globes with the next upstroke, parting them entirely accidentally, and almost hit the spot where Stiles’ cute little hole was hidden.

“Wait!” Stiles yelped and disentangled himself from Derek, getting on his feet. He looked coltishly unsure for a moment, wobbling while he tried to regain balance.

Derek wanted to reach out and steady Stiles, but hesitated in the end. “Everything alright?”

“We should stop, or else we're gonna trigger a full heat right here and now,” Stiles panted. He looked at Derek apologetically, almost – no, _definitively_ – ashamed to a degree.

Derek arched an eyebrow as if to ask, well, _isn't that the whole point?_ His cock was tenting his sweatpants in a ridiculous testament to his horniness. He was _aching_ to spend himself. All of his instincts were telling him to throw the omega onto the couch and pound him to a well-deserved orgasm.

“It would be premature,” Stiles said regretfully. He was still breathing harder than normal, a slight flush to his skin, his hair tousled. “You can't rush these things. Believe me, it's killing me to stop this right now, but I'm not all there yet. My heat hasn't even begun. It'd be a mess for my cycle. I usually get pretty sick before my heat hits, so… if we do this now, the sexy times would be a good deal less sexy.”

“Okay.” Derek rubbed his eyes, trying to will away his insistent, painfully throbbing erection. That wasn’t going to work. “Can you give me a minute? I'm gonna…” He motioned his head towards the direction of his bedroom and bathroom.

Stiles caught his drift right away. “Good idea,” he said. “I'm just gonna… do that as well.”

And that's how they ended up masturbating in two different bathrooms. It wasn't the kind of evening Derek had envisioned for them both, but there was something companionable about it, he supposed – he could hear the frenzied movement of skin on skin a few rooms over, and together with the noises he himself was making, they were creating an obscene duet.

It didn't take long before he heard Stiles' movements falter, heard the omega _groan._

Derek fucked his own hand furiously as a result, his hips thrusting forward at a punishing pace. The red head of his cock pushed through the tight grip of his fingers, and even if it was a poor substitute for Stiles' ass, the heat and friction catapulted him straight into a bone-melting orgasm.

He hips stuttered as he spilled into the sink, painting the black marble with long stripes of pearly come.

Derek felt _wrecked._

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, at his heaving chest and wild green eyes, he hardly recognized himself.

He looked more beast than man.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


When they regrouped in the living room, they took one look at one another and laughed. The situation was kinda absurd.

It probably should have been awkward rather than hilarious, but for reasons Derek couldn’t fathom it wasn’t.

“Man, that got out of control _fast_ ,” Stiles said good-naturedly.

Derek nodded in assent, even though the innocuous words unsettled something in him. In retrospect, the sheer intensity of his desire was _frightening._ His control was usually iron-clad, not paper-thin.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he said seriously.

“You didn’t,” Stiles assured him. “But I admit what happened was… unexpected.” He looked lost for a moment, thrown. “But good to know we’re compatible, I guess?”

Derek’s instincts urged him to close the space to the omega, to engulf him in a comforting embrace, but Derek’s feet remained rooted to the spot. With a start, he realized that he didn’t trust _himself_ fully. At least not in this very moment.

“So…” Stiles said slowly. “The night is still young. Well. Youngish.”

“We could watch a movie,” Derek suggested.

“Or you could give me my reward.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose. “The massage?”

A nod. “Yeah. You tried to weasel your way out of that one, and kudos to you! You were almost successful.”

Derek returned Stiles’ grin only tentatively. He was glad to see that the omega held no grudge - despite the earlier assurance, it really felt as if Derek had overstepped - but was it really a _wise_ idea to initiate contact again? They had just _made out._ Randomly, with no rhyme or reason.

His doubtfulness must have been plain as day, because Stiles said firmly but without reproach, “It’s going to be strictly professional. We’re both going to keep our enthusiasm to ourselves, alright? Nothing out of line.”

“Nothing out of line...” Derek echoed dimly. “Alright, but aren’t wandering hands kind of the point of a massage? Maybe we should do that some other time.”

 _When your heat sets in_ , went unsaid. _When we can actually do something about the sexual frustration._ Derek wanted to take two steps back rather than one forward; he was still rattled by the discovery that some of his alpha instincts weren’t quite as domesticated as he’d previously assumed. They were close to the surface now that he had a half-naked omega on his territory, one who was was rapidly approaching his heat and _asked_ to be touched by Derek.

But Stiles was set on getting his massage right then and there. “I wasn’t lying about that kink in my back,” he admitted ruefully. “Pretty please?”

Naturally, Derek was defenseless against the full force of those pleading doe eyes. “Alright,” he said with a sigh.

Stiles smiled and made himself comfortable on the couch, lying down with little fanfare.

_Professional._

_Nothing out of line._

It would probably help to remind himself that this was a business relationship – because it _was_ one, after all, and Derek knew the terms and conditions, didn’t he?

He had signed the contract and read the thousand subclauses.

But all of that knowledge did little to help when he had an unobstructed view of Stiles' back, of his muscled shoulders and the sinuous curve of his spine. Derek was unsure how to proceed. Right in this moment, the series of events that would lead from him sitting on the couch to him him rubbing Stiles’ shoulders seemed impossible to fathom.

“I'm ready if you are,” Stiles reminded him dryly, his words muffled against the fabric of the couch. “I'm getting _old_ here.”

“Just give me a moment, I’ll grab the massage oil and a towel,” Derek replied. He had bought sweet almond oil specifically for a situation like this one.

When he returned, he gave Stiles a large Snoopy towel to lie on and waited until the omega had settled down again (which he did with a smirk and a breathy, “well, you _are_ full of surprises, Mr. Hale”). Only then did he move to kneel on the couch next to omega. He opened the bottle, poured some oil on his palms and rubbed them together. Once satisfied with the temperature, he pressed his palms flat against Stiles' back. Yet again, the first contact of skin on skin proved to be startling. _Electric_ , even. Derek tried to ignore Stiles' abrupt intake of breath and the involuntary little tremor that rolled through his body.

He began to slide his palms across Stiles’ back with efficient, methodical movements, spreading the oil everywhere. Stiles' skin was soft as silk under him and smooth under the glide of the oil, glistening when the light hit it just right.

“S' warm,” Stiles mumbled. “I like that.”

Derek hmm-ed.

Stiles hadn't lied about the kinks in his back, and in fact even downplayed the issue. Feeling an echo of other people's pain was just of the many features that came with the whole werewolf package. The dull, low throb under his fingertips told Derek all about Stiles' old muscle aches, which were not unusual for people who were perpetually stressed or had to sit for long stretches for time. The latter seemed to apply to Stiles, if Derek had to wager a bet, since the omega preferred the odder and less back-friendly sitting positions while studying.

“You have some knots in your trapezius,” Derek said softly. “I'll try to get rid of them, okay? Tell me if it's too uncomfortable.”

Stiles mumbled something affirmative into the couch, and so Derek really got to work. He had always liked giving massages. He was one of those people who'd probably die without proper physical contact. There was something fundamentally poignant about touching someone like this, about the simple connection it created. For all that he complained about his packmates regularly, he cherished their tactile nature and basked in their attention, only too willing to roughhouse with them and return their more affectionate gestures. Every one of their movie nights was destined to end in a cuddly dogpile with no regard for anyone’s personal space bubble, and that was just the way they liked it.

He sank his fingers into Stiles' skin, methodically searching out the areas that felt tighter and denser than the surrounding areas. With circular motions, he applied light pressure to help release the tense fibers, rubbing them gently. Derek forgot everything but the task at hand, single-minded and determined as he was, carefully listening to every sound Stiles was making, every hitched breath and bitten-off whimper, every exhale of air. He let Stiles be his guide. The muscles of his shoulder were especially rigid, and so Derek dug in while Stiles groaned as each strain of tension was slowly eased. He took care not to touch Stiles' neck directly. If one thing about werewolf stereotypes was true, it was their unwavering fixation on necks, and Stiles' neck - long and graceful, entirely unmarked and _begging_ for a bite - was a prime example of what drove them mad. Along with the rubbing motions, Derek did some subtle pain drain, gradually seeping the aches from Stiles' body, eradicating every body memory of tension and discomfort.

Stiles melted into his ministrations. As Derek unraveled each knot of tension, his heartbeat calmed and his breathing slowed; he was sinking into a state that was reminiscent of deep sleep or meditation. The feather weight of his eyelashes rested on his cheeks and his torso gently rose and fell with each breath. He looked utterly unguarded. Trusting. Pliant. Derek preened under the implicit endorsement and found he couldn't stop massaging the omega, even after he'd gotten rid of all of his muscle aches. He kneaded Stiles' back with devoted attention, and the movements of his hands became more fluid in time, melting into a hypnotic, languorous rhythm. The only sounds were the thuds of both their heartbeats, the soft ebb and flow of them breathing, and the smooth glide of skin against skin.

Derek relished the chance to drink in the sight that the omega presented. Map out Stiles' skin, catalog his features. The minute details, the idiosyncrasies. Like the mole on the edge of his shoulder blade, and the four brown dots on the dip of Stiles' spine, which almost formed a perfectly straight chain. Or the scar at the small of his back, a sliver of pink just below the twin dimples. And speaking of which... Stiles' sweats were sitting low on his hips, not quite covering the rising swell of his cute ass, revealing several finger widths of pale skin a shade or two lighter than the rest. Which suggested some shirtless and pretty unseasonal exposure to the sun and made Derek _wonder._

Derek felt the low thrum of arousal to his bones. He wasn't entirely sure he would ever touch Stiles without becoming aroused. The second they'd made skin contact, his mind was rife with possibilities, with _ideas._ He was half-hard in his pants. Not that he could be blamed, could he? The sight. The scent. _The sounds._ It all bled into an irresistible siren song, and Derek felt more alive than he had in ages, strange and newborn, unlike himself. Or maybe more like himself. He didn't know anymore. But even so, the thrum of his arousal wasn't drowned out by urgency, by animal hunger. The brisk efficiency of his hand movements had given way to affectionate caresses, gentle touches that were an end in themselves.

It was the sort of moment that he wished he could preserve forever.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Stiles still radiated pure bliss after he'd showered and reemerged in his pajamas. Bonelessly, he flopped down onto the couch once more. “Dude. _Dude_. You've got magic hands. I'm not telling you to quit your day job... but you should totally quit your day job.”

“I'll consider it,” Derek replied dryly, although he was genuinely pleased by the praise and had to fight down the beaming smile that tried to split his face. Oddly enough, he felt as if he had passed some kind of test he didn’t even know he was taking. 

“There’s still something we need to talk about,” Stiles said. “I mean, now that we’re in a zen-like state of relaxation… or at least I am.”

“Oh?” Derek offered.

“Yeah, um.” Stiles looked uncomfortable for a brief moment. “Turns out, the weather forecast says there’s a ninety eight percent chance of my heat hitting me like a freight train tomorrow.”

Derek's swallowed, abruptly alert.

“And that means we have to clarify some things. Namely a few, well, pretty mundane details of our arrangement.”

“Okay,” Derek affirmed.

“For one, we don't have to use condoms. We're both as clean as vestal virgins, plus I’ve got a birth control implant, so unless you have other preferences...”

“No, sure. Absolutely not!” Derek winced at the speed and eagerness of his response.

“Great,” Stiles said, in vain trying to hide a grin. “Second, and I know this is awkward, we should talk about safe words and limits. I mean, I know you've gotten my list from the agency, and I've gotten yours, but with that sort of thing it's just better to do it in person, right?”

Derek scratched the back of his head in a futile gesture that only emphasized his embarrassment. “Okay. Sure.”

“Um.” Stiles bit his lip, worrying it ever so slightly. “Basically, anything on my list is off the table. You still remember everything?”

“No skin-breaking bites, no choking, no use of force that would result in physical damage,” Derek began to recount. “No filming. No photos. No body fluids except come and saliva.”

“I like hair-pulling,” Stiles said with a little wink. “Spanking, too. But god, do I hate choking. No way. Please don't do that. I mean, a hand on my neck can be fine, holding me down can be perfect, but if my airways are restricted I'm going to _have_ a panic attack and die, or at least that's what it's gonna feel like. _Please_ don't do that.”

“Okay,” Derek hurried to assure him. “I won't. I promise. I won't do anything you don't like.”

Stiles looked at him for a considering moment. “Have you ever done something this before?”

Derek shook his head softly, because whatever _this_ was supposed to mean, that was the right answer. He'd never had sex with an omega before. Least of all during heat. And he'd never paid for sex either, in any capacity.

A fleeting smile materialized on Stiles' face, there and gone again in seconds. “Okay. Well, heat sex can develop its own dynamic. What I'm saying is, there's no need for gloves – I like aggressive sex, I like gentle sex, I like everything in between. It depends on the moment. My hard lines are on the list, and for everything else I suggest we use the stoplight system. Red for stop, green for go, yellow for proceed with caution.”

“Sounds good.”

Stiles subjected Derek to a long, probing look. “Yeah? You still seem preoccupied with something.”

Derek ducked his head involuntarily, wondering how he could possibly say what was on his mind. “I like the system, we can use it, I'm just worried that the lines are still gonna blur when you're not that, uh… you know.

Stiles looked at him placidly. “When I'm not _that_...?”

“...when you're not that lucid anymore.”

Stiles' mouth fell open in indignation. “ _Dude!_ I'm always going to be lucid, okay? Don't believe that crap. Omegas going crazy with heat hormones is a compelling narrative, fine, I get that, but it's _not_ true. Like, not even remotely!”

“Oh...” Derek said, and felt unbearably stupid all of the sudden.

“If I don't like something, I'm going to tell you.”

Derek nodded against the singeing heat in his cheeks. “Understood.”

“And now to your limits.”

“ _My_ limits?” Derek asked.

Stiles nudged his foot lightly and winked at him. “What, you think this is a one-way street? Maybe you don't like having your back scratched up until it resembles an abstract painting. It'd be good to know.”

Derek's mind short-blanked for one glorious moment. “It would heal seconds later.”

“So not the point.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “You've hardly put anything on your list. You're either very open sexually, or...”

Derek's eyebrows climbed upwards, bushy caterpillars reaching for the sky. “Or?”

“Or you're one of those guys who thinks they're totally in control and there's nothing an omega could do that would cross any lines.”

“Uh,” Derek stuttered uselessly.

“You're one of _those_ guys,” Stiles determined, but there was humor in his voice. “I can get pretty… snarky when I have sex. I might be needling your ego a bit. If that's something you'd rather avoid, let me know.”

“Uh no, that's fine. I think.”

“Also, I like getting physical. I mean of course sex is physical per se, but I like biting and scratching, within the limits. Marking behavior. Nothing too major, but it's not everyone's cup of tea.”

“I think that's fine, too,” Derek said and wondered how Stiles could be so nonchalant about the entire subject, so detached, as if they were talking about the weather or the latest sports news instead of sexual preferences. Jesus.

“Well then,” Stiles conceded with a defeated little sigh. “Just remember that you can make use of the stoplight system, too. It's not a one-way street.” He winked at Derek. “I’m not gonna judge you.”

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


The next day, Derek woke up to the sound of Stiles being sick.

He was on his feet and across the hallway before his brain had really caught up with the fact. “Uh, Stiles? Everything okay?”

“Totally fine,” came the feeble answer. “Okay, not… _fine_ fine, but everything is alright. Nothing totally out of the… urhgh... ordinary.”

 _Alright_ was apparently defined very loosely, because the next thing Derek heard was the sound of violent retching.

“This is _normal_?” Derek asked after it was over, his voice climbing several octaves right into a shrill territory.

The response was an affirmative groan. “Oh fuck, I'm feeling so fucking nauseous...”

“Are you _sure_ you're okay? Do you want me to come in?” Derek hovered in front of the door, feeling distressingly helpless. “Surely there's some medication you can take? Something? _Anything?_ Do you want me to make you tea?”

“No, it's alright… I've got it covered. Thanks though,” Stiles answered. His voice was as coarse as sandpaper, sounding strained. “To be honest, today… let's just say today isn't going to be particularly sexy. I'm probably going to spend most of the time right here. Me and this toilet bowl, we're going to be best buddies. Super tight.”

“Oh,” Derek uttered and he grasped for words that weren't there, some script that he could hold onto. “Do you want privacy?” he asked finally. “Do you want me to leave?”

There was silence for a few moments. “No, no. It's fine. I can hardly evict you from your own apartment.”

“I can work somewhere else. Hell, visit friends. I can keep myself busy, don't worry about it.”

Another long pause before Stiles replied, “well… I'd appreciate it, honestly. If it's _really_ okay.”

“It is,” Derek assured him. A part of him was fiercely reluctant to leave Stiles alone when he felt this unwell, but he trusted the omega to know what was best for him, and if space was what he wanted, space was what he got.

Derek showered, put new clothes on and prepared breakfast – something fast for himself, and something more elaborate for Stiles. Yogurt with fresh berries and honey, pancakes, fresh coffee, a can of that special tea he'd bought because it was said to remedy 'heat-specific ailments' – it had to be shipped from Japan and was sold in teeny tiny packages of wrapped golden paper. Hopefully it would actually help.

Then he grabbed his laptop and some fitness gear and headed out. There was a quaint little coffee shop a few blocks from his apartment where he could work on one of his on-going projects. Of course, Derek could just as well have gone back to the fund, back to his office, but since his days off were already approved and entered into the system, the thought lacked any appeal. Plus, he really didn’t want to run into Peter. His uncle wasn't the kind of guy who was easily fed excuses; he'd be sure to inquire into Derek's unusually erratic behavior.

And maybe he'd even sniff out a trace of Stiles' scent on Derek… curiously enough, that thought was enough to make Derek drop his fangs and growl at thin air.

(He was a freaking embarrassment for werewolves _everywhere_ ).

Naturally, as distracted as Derek was, work was slow going. He fiddled with the parameters of his pet model, feeling aimless and unproductive. Usually the numbers made sense to him. Usually he felt satisfied cutting through the chaos, unraveling it, finding order in it....

Clearly not today.

Derek decided to give up on his project after three frustrating hours, leaving the coffee shop in a spirit of defeat. Maybe he'd enjoy a less cognitively demanding activity? He browsed through some shops, waving shop assistants away when they honed in on him. Derek couldn't resist buying a cashmere scarf; the red tartan pattern was soft as silk and so beautifully crafted he couldn't bring himself to regret the purchase, even if it wasn't his usual style.

Still, all the shops felt to cramped after a while. The noises, the colors, the dry air – it was as if the walls closed in on him, as if everything stifled him, _choked_ him. He _had_ to go outside.

He headed straight for the Central Park, and while the green grass and open space was a welcome sight, even there the air was thick with the scent of humanity. There was nowhere he could be alone, no spot where he could nurse even the illusion of privacy.

When even the park was intolerable, that left him with precious few options.

 _Are you busy?_ he asked Boyd via text.

 _Working on my thesis_ , his packmate answered. _Really in the flow right now. Hit the sweet spot._

A frown materialized on Derek's face, but he was self-aware enough to send something supportive in Boyd's direction and bother him no further. Then he'd hit the gym alone, so what.

As far as ideas went, this was possibly the best he'd had today.

Derek relished the chance to work out, pumping weights far beyond his usual limits. It was a monotonous exercise and yet deeply satisfying; for once Derek felt he could actually focus on something. Even so, he _still_ felt on edge. The physical exertion didn't really exhaust him, didn't dull the sharpness of his aggression. The other werewolves shot him wary glances and gave him a wide berth. One guy with a wheat grass drink actually _jumped_ out of the way when Derek cut into his path. Derek growled in warning and lifted the corners of his mouth, displaying the hint of a fang. It was gratifying to see the guy's eyes widen in fear, but not gratifying _enough_. Derek wouldn't have minded shoving the alpha aside, taunting him, maybe even eliciting a full-on brawl – and _woah_ there, that was _not_ like him! _At all_.

Derek took a deep breath, not that it helped any. Even hitting the shower didn't do much to calm him down. He felt as if he was running over with energy, as if he could take on the world.

He got home at eight pm when he was too restless and jittery to stay away any longer, damn near ready to jump out of his skin.

The moment he opened the door, he dropped the bags he was holding. His apartment was saturated with Stiles' scent, fucking _drowning_ in it, and that scent was _thick_ and _creamy_ and so delicious that unbidden tremors began to run through his body. He filled his lungs with air and sucked in the scent, desperate for it, _greedy_ , already recognizing that this was for him and him _alone._

This was _his_ omega, calling out for him. Waiting for him. _Needing_ him.

He groaned silently. This was the purest form of agony. This was torture.

The scent was like an invisible hook, firmly lodging itself into his chest, propelling him forward – there was no force in the world that could have stopped him at this point, no higher power, no army. His feet carried him to his bedroom on their own accord. The door swung open and there Stiles was, right in the center of Derek's bed. Naked. Kneeling on his heels, the thin sheet pooled around his hips. His skin was glistening with sweat, his chest heaving and his cheeks flushed as if he was just recovering from the high of an orgasm; his hair was tousled and disheveled, and the honey-brown shades of his irises were nearly eclipsed by the dilated rims of his pupils.

Derek had never seen anything more beautiful.

Derek wanted to – wanted – _he wanted._  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *turns swivel chair, pets Persian cat*
> 
> Well, well, well. I see you fell into my trap. 
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger? D-: I'm an awful person. 
> 
> It's gonna take a while until the next chapter is up, since it's the heart of the fic (and a giant sex fest). I've also wanted to include some art pieces, we'll see how that goes.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is welcome. Oh, and that piñata shirt is a thing that actually [exists](https://image.spreadshirtmedia.com/image-server/v1/products/4249023/views/1,width=378,height=378,appearanceId=16,version=1440417743/I-d-Hit-That!.png)! Needless to say, I want one.


End file.
